


Infamous 228

by Cucumber_Oil



Category: Child's Play/Chucky (Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cucumber_Oil/pseuds/Cucumber_Oil
Summary: The one where Chucky regrets The Lipstick Incident, then doesn't regret it quite so much.
Relationships: Andy Barclay/Chucky | Charles Lee Ray
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grimey_gal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimey_gal/gifts).



> Trigger warning: misgendering (not ill-willed) due to someone learning his way out of 80's moirés. Nothing series-abnormal. The fucking is definitely series-abnormal. Warning for dicks? I don't know, I like to think Don would be proud I managed to fit them in somewhere. This is a birthday gift for Grimey; her beautiful girls used with her kind permission.
> 
> No dis meant to the Chicago accent! When I say it's a nasal sumbitch I mean that with full affection. We're Great Lakers in my family and when you say 'hat dahgk' you accept your accent is objectively ridiculous.

First time makeup touched his face, he was in Illinois, in some military lifer's office, in a plastic body that had already grown much too familiar, much too fast. Vodou revival was starting to look less and less appealing with each round. The way the inhuman vessel got easier to identify as himself, as his own being, was maybe the worst part. Oh, and the needing to die to get any of the real benefits? That sucked too. That sucked a _lot_. 

The makeup tasted plastic, too, like a crayon. (Don't be an ass, who hasn't nibbled one in preschool? Shut the fuck up.) Smelled a little like oil, a little like play-doh. Strange perhaps that he remembered the pointless details, but then, going Barbie mode always forced him to process all sensory input with excruciating sensitivity, his high-speed brain downshifted into neutral until the gears were screaming. He was already attentive (Tiff had called it anal, but screw her, who made her his therapist) and freeze-frame situations turned it agonizing. Scents were overpowering. Sounds were heightened.

Taste didn't usually factor into it, but first time for everything, and wasn't that just the kind of shitass way this whole fucking venture was going? He'd already landed on the wrong possessee, stuck in the middle of the only heavily-armed batch of kids this side of Bridgeport, and Andy god knew where. Whole thing was screwed to hell already, so why the fuck not? Throw in some mouthfuls of greasepaint, sure, since he was already looking like such a fucking _clown_ with this fucking _shitshow_.

Of all the places to learn what makeup tastes like, you'd think a fucking commandant's quarters on academy grounds would be the last. (Or would you? He'd heard all sorts of tales back home about military schools, bunch of fat old men cocking the eye at a bunch of straightbacked smooth boys, bad as a fucking Catholic school some guys said.) But again, that's just how this cockup of a situation was going. 

Some silly cunts were playing at breaking and entering, some stupid bitch had lipstick on her and not enough brains in her silly head to do anything more exciting with an officer's quarters than vandalize his grandbaby's doll and boom, presto, Chucky the infamous was now Chucky the glam, his gob cheap-red as a whore. 

Greasy. That was the biggest sense memory. Greasy as mayonnaise, when he lifted a hand and wiped at it. Red smeared across his small palm like the freshest blood-splatter you ever saw; not even cherry red but tomato red, poppy red with that bright orange base to it, a color so vivid that for a split second it was almost more exciting to see it there against his skin than blood. It looked so supernaturally sharp against his pale hand.

The fascination was there and gone on a single exhale. Before the next breath in he was awash all over again with the memory of the girls' careless hands, of being lifted and pinned and toyed with, and there was the blaze being manhandled always built inside him: excitement and fury all twisted up into that familiar churning. Something about the thoughtless violation of it, of being forced to stay mute and docile while larger forces did as they would, never failed to gutpunch him just like this; and just like this the vengeful, thrilling energy always shot out at every pore, like he was a boiler hitting the red zone and every seam was whistling, every nut and bolt rattling warning. When the bad waves hit like this, if he didn't find a way to vent the pounding arousal of rage inside him, he'd _explode_.

In the cast of such incendiary fury, something as small as the feel of greasy lipstick couldn't fail to be burned away. It would be many years before the sense would peek back up, faint but tangible, like most old memories do: unexpected, uncalled for, unwanted.

* * *

The second time he let himself get marked up with a girly chemistry set, he was in Toledo. Bonding with Glenda had hardly been what he'd call easy, but frankly, the muttered watercolor lessons were a breeze compared to this: both of them staring into her dresser mirror, ignoring Tiffany's hollers from the kitchen that the bus would be by any minute, trying to ascertain whether her makeup looked 'banging' (whatever the hell that meant) enough for school. Glenda had snagged him on the way to breakfast, ignoring his increasingly desperate protests that her mother or broth-- Glen would be a better judge. Bitching all the way, he clambered up onto her vanity chair to stare into the mirror with her. 

What a pair they made. Two sets of crazy eyes, knife-slash mouths, furrowed brows and strong pouts, 'psycho' splashed across them both in a bolder warning display than any colored powders could ever make. He almost told her that makeup can't hide crazy; if she doubted him, she could just look at her mom.

' _Not helpful,_ ' he told himself instead. ' _Not fucking helpful, Chucko, why don't you go ahead and shit on it just like any time someone hands you a chance to be a decent human being. Step up your fuckin' game, your kids are into braces and boys, for chrissake. Or girls, or whatever._ '

So he stopped lingering on the way his biggest gift to her genetically was an unfortunate element of coyote-crazy in the eyes, focused on her face, and tried to remember Tiffany's nattering way back in South Side, riding the L on their way to some mischief. "Uh, the lashes look good," he tried. Tiffany always made a fuss about those. Always crimping them with those godawful plier-looking things, as if she needed anything but mascara and a flutter to make her angel-eyes pop. Hell, forget the mascara. Tiff had a flutter that could turn your knees to water in a heartbeat, au natural.

"But what about everything else, Dad," Glenda whined, making a frenetic spin of her hand that encompassed the rest of the art project. There was a lot. Blush, several metallic colors of eyeshadow, and a lipstick two shades darker than the blood-red carnations he'd bought Tiffany for their first Valentine's Day. Bought because he wanted her to know he was serious. Carnations because he wasn't serious enough to spend all of what little cash he had on hand, not when girlfriends rarely lasted much longer than they'd been going. Blood-red because he wasn't sure yet, they'd only just started steady, but he suspected she had a mean streak wide enough to match his own. In retrospect, that first gift predicted the full trajectory to which their relationship was fated: earnest, haunted, and bloody.

" _Dad_."

"I don't fuckin' know, okay? This isn't my shit," he snapped, too frazzled to muzzle himself. "I _told_ you. It's all the same."

"You're an artist!"

"I paint _sometimes_."

"So tell me if it's good art!"

He turned, grabbing her stubbornly jutted chin -- which just made her jut it harder, of course, another gift of his genetics -- and tried to force his brain to transfer the vocabulary from paint to facepaint. Nothing he'd say to her mother about makeup was acceptable here, not to his progeny, Jesus H _Christ_. Mentally he kicked his own ass and ran blind with it. "Okay, listen, jeez, it makes you look tough, okay? Like you're real fierce and you're not gonna take anyone's shit. It looks real savage, okay?" 

He was shocked to realize he was wincing a little by the end, like he thought she was going to strike him. Confronting the sense of fear, he discovered an unhappy response to his critique would hurt, and he was scared of it. He released her chin. God, why weren't children as easy as lovers?

By some serene grace of whatever Lwa happened to be passing by, Glenda broke into an enormous smile. (The dark-red lipstick did nothing to make it look less dangerous than normal. Kind of worsened the effect, actually.) "Really?"

"Uh, yeah. Absolutely."

"Thanks, Dad!"

The hug she gave him was too hard, almost toppled him off the chair, and immediately abandoned so she could start excavating the piles of clothes on her bed, thundering through the possibilities for a matching badass shirt. The shirt equations she was blitzing verbally went right over his head as he clutched the edge of vanity, flabbergasted. Was it that easy sometimes? She had hugged him. Did he deserve that hug? If she knew he was bluffing his way through, she'd absolutely take it back, right? How had he not fucked that up?

"It's my favorite!" she was saying, whirling back to him, and he desperately hoped the near animal panic didn't show on his face. His eyes focused on the thing she was grabbing -- oh, the lipstick, thank god, he could nod like he'd been following -- and then nearly crossed when she almost socked him in the mouth with it, she thrust it towards him so hard. "You should try it!"

"Oh, sure," he groused, taking it from her, and watched her whirl back to digging. "I'm gonna go right ahead and smear this shit on like I'm a fuckin' --"

His knuckles went white around the case. Somehow he avoided cursing out loud, but it was so close, so tip of the tongue he almost bit himself. He didn't even know what he was going to say; he'd always worked that way, words flowing from the inhumanly crackling energy in his core right up through his brain and out his mouth without even a slight courtesy gesture towards a filter. The possibilities, fed by everything from vague memories of shouted abuse somewhere over his preschool head to hollered insults hooted back and forth across a cold night street in Chicago, were varietal and cruel: _fag, girl, Barbie, whore_.

The twins' door was open and Glen could be anywhere, quietly coming up the hallway to tell his sister to get moving, maybe. Getting ready in the bathroom mirror, maybe, safely out of Glenda's hurricane preparation zone but easily within earshot. Standing just out of sight and doing nothing but listening, maybe, wanting to be involved but scared to be in verbal reach of his aggressive, his thoughtless, his filterless _trash-fire_ of a father.

' _Their sibling,_ ' Chucky thought, ' _not his sister. Their lipstick, not her lipstick._ ' His big fat motormouth and Glen/da's quivering thin lips, his fractured swaggering ego and their brother-sister-something selves, his stupid immature attempts as an unprepared father and his kids desperately trying to avoid every needy, accidental swing of his hands.

The crack of the lipstick lid snapping in his clutched fist wasn't gunshot-loud -- this wasn't one of Tiffany's primetime TV weep-a-thons, for god's sake -- but it was sure as shit loud enough. Glenda paused in their digging to glance at him, then at the cracked tube in his hand, confused but immediately ready to fight, cause be damned. Got that from their father too. "What the fuck, Dad? Why'd you do that?"

"Sorry," he spit. It had to be almost choked out of him. It was like a broken tooth, too big to swallow but too shocking to evict without force. He sucked it all back in, then, fear and anger and spit and regret and ego, and blew out a heated breath. "I'm a clumsy fuck," he said. "I'm sorry. I'll get you another."

"What the fuck, Dad! That's like our favorite!" She -- _they_ \-- bustled over to snatch it out of his hand, inspecting the break-line now splitting up the side of the cap. He tried another hot exhale, focused briefly on just opening his fists.

He held a hand out. "Here."

Their automatic twitch away was infuriating, and totally deserved. "What? No!"

He gestured, open-palmed, again. "I'll get you another today. I just need it so I can replace it. I'm not gonna remember whatever the shit that is."

Being Glenda, the premise of free stuff was an easy allay for suspicion; it almost hurt how quickly they switched from withdrawn to tossing the tube in his hand. If only all the stupid injuries he'd done his children could be fixed so quickly. "Awesome! Now we'll each have one, and Glen can stop whining when I break the tip."

"Great," he said, and swallowed hard. He tried to spit out the next words the same way he spit out the apology, but they stuck in his throat, hard as a cherry-pit. Unaware, Glenda went back to digging, and by the time he'd levered them loose with guilty force, his kid was already into the hallway. "Glenda!"

"Yeah?" Their torrent of curls only came back in halfway; they never liked retracing their steps when momentum was already built. 

"I -- y'know -- help me put it on?" He despised the insecurity in his voice. He shook the lipstick at them accusingly, the small tube the only thing he could safely aim his defensive aggression at as they re-entered the room. "Fuck if I know how these things work."

Luckily, they got all their patience and tact from him. No hesitation, no questioning, no humiliating prying _whys_. They just grabbed the lipstick, snagged one thoughtless hand into his hairline so violently he cussed, ratcheted his head back, and smeared the makeup on in a few quick swipes.

"Christ, Glenda!" He rubbed at his throbbing temple, other hand fumbling to grasp the little tube they were shoving into it. "No wonder Glen whines about the fucking tip!"

"Looks good, Dad!" Glenda was already bounding out. God. No wonder his own mother had been at her wits' end with him. Chucky had always suspected he deserved every poor childhood memory he owned, but thanks to Glenda, he could now envision all too clearly why some unread, beat-down, cripplingly poor South Side statistic had no room in her heart for the absolute fireball she'd been unfortunate enough to squirt out.

The flash of his reflection in his periphery diverted his attention away from darker memories. He glanced over, and the thought that hit him was revenant-like in its age and severity: with Glenda's Mach-5 application technique, he probably looked better when those noisy girls gave him a makeover back at Kent.

There was a hard ball caught in his throat, too big to swallow or breathe around. He kept trying anyway, swallowing over and over, staring at the graphic tableau before him. A fucking Universal classic was what was staring back: Frankenstein's monster and Igor combined, Quasimodo with a splash of greasepaint. The ravaging scars lightning-bolting back and forth across his skin were almost minor-league when compared to the bloody color on his slashed-up mouth, the red smears making the bruisey colors of his sunken eye sockets pop out in worse detail. He was hardly DiCaprio on a good day, but this clashing array colored him as violently as a murder scene.

"Dad, come on!"

It was hard to peel himself away from the car crash of his own reflection. Back home they'd called it _gaping:_ everyone rubbernecking the latest accident, staring and jawing about it, schadenfreude always the favorite Chicago pastime. Now he was grateful to be yanked away by Glenda's howling. He stumbled off the vanity chair and came into the hallway to find the twins getting goodbye hugs.

Glen froze, hands paused mid-adjusting their bag strap, eyes taffy-stuck on his lips. Tiffany's eyes darted between him and Glenda, and the soft smile that touched her own perfectly-pinked lips made something in him shift and jump loose, like books collapsing on an unsteady shelf. He smiled, putting all his terrified aggressive defensive crazy into it.

"Look! Now we're _both_ sexy maniacs."

"Oh, you need a little work on the liner, sweetie," said Tiffany, hurrying over. It was almost second nature to fall into it, swatting at her dabbing tissue and bitching about her fussing, though it had always been blood she'd been dabbing from his mouth before. It was still familiar, and familiar was an immense comfort to throw himself into with cursing relief. 

He tried to avoid looking at Glen. They were watching the ridiculous pantomime of their parents, speechless as usual; there was a tiny grin on their face, though, and Chucky's guts squeezed so painfully at the thought, he was honestly worried his old heart would burst. For the sake of everyone's Monday, therefore, he avoided eye contact. No sense rupturing his nasty insides over one hopefully successful interaction. Glen would probably forget all about it by the time they came home.

"Stop grinning," chided Tiffany, even though who was she to talk, with grinning from ear to ear. "You're making me make it worse."

"Same as we always do," he cracked, and then they were both laughing, breathless with some unvoiced relief, and he wondered if the strange swelling feeling in his center could really be what it felt like, which was joy.

* * *

The third time he wears makeup, he's drunk. At least that's the best excuse yet. 

He didn't set out to spend his evening this way. Wearing makeup, that is. The drunk part was unavoidable; he's cooking dinner with Kristen and Jeeves, and that means getting soused before they even turn the oven on. It's tradition.

They started making dinners for Andy together without being drunk, but as it turns out, cooking in grim silence is infinitely more bearable if you're hammered. They started making dinners for Andy together because both households were doing it separately, and it was starting to get annoying, having to text someone you didn't even want to have in your contacts in the first place like _hey, I'm starting chili, don't FUCKING bitch at me you've got a chicken in the oven_ or _what the hell, I said I had weekdays, what do you mean you're doing caldeirada_ or _well what the fuck do you want me to do, the beef's already defrosting_ and then you have to do something about it. Turns out, if you want to live in someone's house and keep everything cool, 'do something about it' can't always mean 'stab the problem until it stops moving'. Who'd have thought?

Subtle nuances like that are the main reason Chucky's never been good at relationships.

He's trying, though. Lwa help him, he's actually trying this time. Which means that when it was the fifth time in a month he was chewing angrily on his lower lip, glowering at his phone, half a caesar salad constructed on the table and now apparently doomed to wilt pointlessly while Andy was already on his way to Kristen's, he had to decide what new definition of 'do something about it' he would apply to the situation. Knifeless solutions were so damn hard. He had to grouse and grumble and clean the kitchen with short angry swipes for an hour before he had his plan in order.

''We gotta do something about this," he informed Kristen coolly, the moment she picked up. His stomach was tight with nerves, but he'd _made_ that fucking caesar dressing, dammit, we're talking _dried herbs_ and shit, fucking two fingers up at that coagulating Hidden Valley Ranch in the back of the fridge Andy probably bought last year, and he wasn't going to be anybody's bitch about this. Andy was _his_ roommate, for fuck's sake.

"Oh, do we," she returned, her voice dropping by actual degrees per syllable, so that by the end, the warm sound of clinking glass and Andy and Jeeves' laughter in the background was almost frozen by the ice of her tone. 

Chucky swallowed and thought bravely about how fried chicken was not half as nice the next morning, but despite his best efforts, his voice was maybe a touch meeker when he continued. "I'm wasting food, here. I mean, we're adults, last I heard. Lemme know when you're having him over."

"He didn't tell you?" Which meant, _You did something to scare him off, so this is your fault anyway_.

His fist curled in front of him, strangling an imaginary throat. It was safer than letting himself lunge at the sudden saccharine quality to her voice. "No," he snapped, "he didn't."

"I wonder why?" Which meant, _You're too stupid to see your own mistakes, and then you never own up to them when you finally catch on_.

He twisted his fist up and sideways, watching it shake with the effort, and then focused fiercely until he could open it wide, flat palm still trembling. He counted to six before letting his heated exhale blow over it. Sure, so he'd filled the void of his no longer kosher coping mechanisms (stab, strangle, threaten with stabbing or strangling, attempt to stab while being thrown down some stairs) with a whole new weird bunch of them (strangle the air, breathe slowly.) So sue him. He was working through withdrawal, here. "I don't know, but it sounds like you wanna tell me, so let's muscle through it, maybe? I wanna fix this."

"You don't get to just fix anything you don't _like_." Her voice had started to rise, then lowered sharply halfway through; sound grew muffled for a moment, like she'd covered the phone, and he heard her yell a reassurance to the apartment. Despite himself, his heart shrank at the thought of Andy looking up from whatever lovely dish she'd put out for them, his warm, open face going a little more taut with friendly concern. 

He firmly told himself cursing her out would do no good, as thoroughly satisfying as it might be. "Okay, listen, jesus, I'm trying to be the bigger man here. Tell me what I did wrong, and I'll try and make it right, and then can we _please_ figure things out? There, that was what you fuckin' wanted, right?"

"I think that's Andy's information to give," she said, and he was glad she couldn't see the way his eyes bugged with rage. "...but yes, okay. I made way too much fried cod last week and it doesn't freeze well. Maybe if you ask him to let you know when he won't be home for dinner, we won't keep double-teaming him."

Clutch a fist, force it slowly open, breathe across it. Don't make a crass joke about double-teaming. "Oh christ, oh man, thanks for the hot tip, but maybe text me the night _before_ next time?"

"You're really working on this, aren't you?" She sounded a little surprised. "The food. He'd mentioned it seemed like you were putting in some effort but --"

"Effort?" he exploded, because he'd knife his pride in the face if that's what it took, but damned if he'd let the endless hours doing housewifey bullshit get squished down to just some fucking effort. "I made caesar dressing! Do you understand I'm talking fucking _eggs_ and shit? _Some effort_ \-- you tell that bastard he can come home and I'll force-feed him his expired shit in the fridge, we'll see how much effort _that_ takes!"

She made a sound he couldn't identify.

"It'll be less," he added, more calmly. He wasn't sure why, but sometimes, when he was off balance, she made him act like he was talking to Tiffany. Something fiery in them both that made his humor and bitchiness conflate. "I'm more qualified with choking than cooking."

Again, the noise. It was definitely muffled laughter.

"I mean, I put herbs in here," he added again. Fuck's sake, it just happened. His stupid wisecracking mouth just went off when they got him off his game.

"I'll let you know in advance if you do too. You know, if you've got some crazy complex plans like dressing."

"This dressing is going to blow him away, so you can go right ahead and shove it up your ass," he informed her. He desperately hoped the levity of the situation allowed for the jibe. Apparently it did, since her voice didn't change to suggest he was suddenly lined up for the electric chair.

"I'm sure. Listen, text me, I'll text you, and nobody wastes food. Pax?"

"Pax," he said, hoping it meant what he thought it meant, because he sure was guessing. Pact? Promise? Like hell he'd ask her, of course, so he just bid her a short goodnight and hung up. Then he went to the fridge and started planning out dinners for a week. (After he used Andy's computer to look up 'pax'. Peace, it meant, which made him snort. Sure. He'd do his best.)

Briefly -- very briefly -- things almost escalated to a competition. Neither Kristen nor Jeeves had time to be cooking constantly, however, and Lwa knew he was still learning what an immersion blender was, so over-the-top meals quickly made way for the healthy or comfort foods they'd all preferred to begin with. Besides, for all the good food it might initially incur, competitiveness between them only ended up stressing out the one man all of them were trying to care for in the first place. Chucky didn't like hearing his occasional explosions of bad temper in the morning were what drove Andy to have dinner with friends, but he could get over it. What wasn't acceptable was the way Andy's shoulders grew tense when the topic of eating at the girls' came up. He couldn't fix that sort of inter-circle tension with a simple grunted apology the next morning. 

Something had to be done, and the tough measure of being civil to Kristen about stealing his thunder hadn't been strong enough. Sometimes, when something had to be done, you had to be extreme. So he went extreme.

He invited the girls over for dinner.

Correction: he suggested Andy invite them over for dinner. Different, and totally less ridiculous. And the fact that he made an incredible roast beef because Andy was pretty sure Jeeves liked it, and that he civilly accepted Kristen's equally civil offer of help with the gravy, and didn't call anyone a bitch even once, didn't mean he was turning soft. It just meant he was willing to be extreme to get the job done. 

The fact that Kristen invited them over for dinner the next week -- them, not Andy, them -- was just good manners. The fact that he went was good manners too. The fact that Jeeves made him laugh so hard he had to cough himself sober was something that wasn't really manners related, but it didn't mean they were all getting along, it meant they were ready to go pretty far to make sure at the end of the day Andy was happy, unstressed, and well-fed.

The fact that Friday dinners were now traded weekly between the households? Whatever. Shit happens. Life is short, get over yourself and help some scary lesbians make pie dough from scratch. Whatever.

The point is: they started drinking so they could make dinners for Andy and not argue the whole way through, which had started happening because it was better than standing on someone else's stepping stool to stir a pot of chili in stone-cold silence. The drinking immediately escalated to a competition, too, because Charles Lee Ray is nothing if not ready to fight anyone about anything, but that ended fast as it started. Kristen didn't respect him enough to compete with him, and Jeeves kicked his ass within a week. He'd forgotten his size made him such a cheap date these days, plus he'd never been a tequila man to start with, and to top it all off she was a band girl. 

You never try to out-drink a band girl. He'd learned that back in Cleveland, but apparently revival had made him forget: if they can tour and party and wake up the next morning able to hit the road again, they're already stronger than you'll ever be, so toast them from a distance and don't even try. Jeeves drank him straight under the table in less than an hour. He's still not sure how he got home after the second attempt -- because once is rarely enough for Chucky to learn a lesson about self-control -- and he's too embarrassed to ask Andy about it. Jeeves still smirks at him whenever she offers him a shot of Patron, too, so fuck them all.

Anyway, she's got no room to preen. They're all fucked, all three of them, and they did it to themselves. To their united disgust, you can only cook really good food and drink really good drinks with someone a limited number of times before you become relaxed around them. Once you become relaxed, you start to maybe joke around a little, or even just chat now and then. Once you chat, you start to learn things about each other. Once you learn a few things, you start to -- fuck him -- you start to think maybe the other person is _okay_.

It's gotten bad. It's gotten so bad he wants to be...something, with them. What, exactly, he's not sure; not friends, as he can't imagine being friends with Kristen, and the girls seem to come as a package deal. Not acquaintances, because they are already acquainted. Whatever's between those two points. 

Whatever. Anyway. The point is, getting drunk on a Friday night, trading snipes and tidbits, chopping garlic for the _alcatra_ , getting a little easy with the wine: unsurprising. Old Chucky might have questioned it, but he's learning to take things one day at a time. Lately, that means quality food and a warm bed after a successful day; when he was a younger man, a good night meant scoring at least one of those things, never mind being lucky enough to hit all three. So he's doing good, as far as that goes.

The lipstick, that's surprising.

It's the wine. Red wine makes him moony, easily handled. (Maybe that was why Tiffany always had whiskey stashed away for private use, but said red wine was her favorite whenever they hung out.) He gets easily engaged and easily pushed off of things; lord knows Tiff got him into enough scrapes with a bottle of cabernet and a few whispers in one ear. This one he can't blame on anyone but himself, though. He started the game of truth or dare, he got tagged because Kristen had the balls to pull the Andy card the first round when he answered truth, and Jeeves is still rocking both dares like a champ (neither two shots of fireball nor having to flip eggs with one hand behind her back have slowed her at all.) He can't say _no_. He's not a _pansy_.

"You're smudging it," scolds Jeeves.

"You're drunk," he informs her. "It was supposed to be just the eggs, not _everything_."

"Stop talking and hold still!" She's a little weavy, but she pins his head to the cabinet with her elbow, trying to arc her hand around get to his mouth. She's still got her other hand behind her back.

He growls, turning his face away, then gives a startled shout when she sticks the lipstick in his ear in her haste. "Jesus! Knock it off!"

"Can't take his own medicine," crows Kristen, from where she's checking the pot. She must sense his glare, because she glances over her shoulder and gives him an absolutely terrifying smirk. It's enough to still his wriggling under Jeeves' elbow, but he still holds a hand up in her wine-red face.

"Stop! Stopstopstop, just use both _hands_ for chrissake."

"I don't have to," Jeeves reminds him, "I did it."

"You did, you flipped the eggs so fuckin' great, now use both hands!" He can see Kristen's shoulders shaking from muffled laughter. "I'll kick you in the teeth if you stick my ear again, I swear to god."

"Blah blah blah." What little caution she ever showed around him faded quickly beneath drunken arguments about spices and lessons on how to chop garlic more effectively. He regrets how much ground he's let go in that regard when she grips his hair, pushing him back against the cabinet again, and squints closely at his face. "Hold still, then."

"I hate this," he informs the kitchen, then presses his lips together in a thin, defensive line as she carefully traces them with the lipstick.

"Wow, yeah, same," she says, leaning back and glowering critically. "Babe, do you have --"

"Sorry, guys, I forgot I was waiting for Fed-Ex to drop off -- what the fuck?"

"Andy!" they chorus. Well, Kristen and Jess chorus; he mumbles it, half hoping Andy somehow won't notice him sitting on the counter, pinned by Jeeves.

Andy's already staring, though, so tough titty. He grins ferociously instead, hoping he's owning the ghoulish look. God knows he's got enough ghoulish to own normally. "Hey, Mr. Late, food's been waiting."

"What the fuck," repeats Andy, putting his bag down and entering the kitchen. He looks completely confounded. Which he can't be blamed for, but Chucky feels irked anyway; who's the kid to judge, like he's never seen a man in makeup before? Nobody gets to look at Chucky with that kind of criticism unless he _lets_ them.

"Lost a bet," he says, instead of snapping for Andy to keep his idiot eyes to himself. Defense mode right away, which --where did that come from? He certainly didn't intend for that to be what came out of his mouth. Like he needs an excuse for whatever Andy caught him doing. Fuck him, Chucky can do what he wants. Including lose Truth or Dare.

While he's still fumbling, Kristen comes around to hug Andy; she keeps an arm around him as she looks over. "What did you need, Jeevie?"

"Do you have something pinker? This is too dark."

"Mm...that I want his lips on? I don't know where they've been."

Andy makes a small sound that he turns into a cough. Chucky's not sure which of them make a move first, but it's close, however it goes: Jeeves' startled snort into her arm, Kristen's mournful groan, or his reddening yelp of shock. Kristen waves it off sharply, a rueful grin catching her despite herself, and Chucky tries his best to glare it off her face. He's pretty sure that just makes her smile bigger. " _Oh meu Deus_ , you can use the one on the sink."

"Awesome." Jeeves vanishes down the hall. 

Chucky scrubs at his violated ear, scowling at Andy's expression. "What the fuck are _you_ lookin' at, get me a paper towel!"

For some reason, Andy startles into the motion of going for one, like he had to shake out of himself. Kristen looks as confused as Chucky feels by his leaden reach for it, missing on the first go because he's still studying the other man's face. Chucky snatches the paper the moment it's in reach, grumbling as he tries to scrape his ear clean with it. "Here," says Andy, finally, coming closer. "Let me."

"I _got_ it," he snarls, scrubbing harder, and smacks Andy's hand away. His roommate retreats reluctantly, settling down at the island counter, and Chucky prays he's not just spreading it all over himself.

"Jesus, you're spreading it all over yourself," says Jeeves, dropping holy _fuck_ a fucking _armload_ of shit on the counter. Chucky leans away like the clattering little compacts and jars and whatevers might bite him. Shimmering powder dusts out in little puffs, bright against the countertop, touching his pants leg with glimmery purples and pinks. "Gimme that."

"Babe, what the hell?" Kristen stops mid-pour, making Andy wait for his glass. "Is that my metallics?"

"I said gimme!" Jeeves doesn't have to fight him very hard; she's got twice his reach, and all his normal moves for playing keepaway involve fighting dirty. Earlier threats notwithstanding, he's not eager to kick the woman in the face, especially when her partner is watching so closely, and biting's right out. He gives up with only token resistance and then glowers the room down while she cleans his ear.

"So...I missed some stuff..." says Andy, leadingly. Kristen snorts.

"Truth or Dare."

Understanding -- and something Chucky can't identify, but it's a cousin to regret, he can see that much from the hooding of the eyes and raised eyebrows -- dawns on Andy's face, and he turns his attention to the wine. "Not it."

"Andy, you have to play!" Jeeves turns towards him, gesturing dramatically with a very red paper towel; Chucky privately feels a wash of relief, seeing how colorful it is. She really got him good. He'd never have gotten that all off himself. "No backing out!"

"I'm not backing out, I'm saying I'm not dealing in." He huddles down a little under Jeeves' approach, but despite her prodding as she tracks down her own wine glass and then perches next to him, he's smiling. Chucky feels that wave of relief go higher. "I came here for a drink, not a sleepover."

"Babe, we should do a sleepover!"

"You're drunk," decides Kristen, startling Chucky with how close she got while he was watching Andy. She starts picking through the pile of makeup, and he watches her suspiciously. "Why don't you get the salad."

Jeeves obliges, despite protest, and Kristen moves closer. Chucky barely avoids scooting further away; something in her muted expression says he should probably leave, but damned if he's going to turn tail, not with Andy right across the kitchen, watching. He gives her a challenging grin instead.

"You got better aim then McStab over there?"

"No promises I won't stab you," she says, pleasantly, and the barely-restrained potential simmering in her gaze turns his instincts up to high. Despite himself, he swallows nervously, knees shifting closer together, body trying instinctively to protect his core.

She hunts a little more, then holds up another lipstick. This one's pink. She puts it close to his face, considering, and of course he can't keep his damn mouth shut. His mama always said it was a curse. "Aw, I always thought of myself as a salmon kinda guy."

"No, you're too ruddy for that. Orange tones won't do you any favors."

"Well I'm not tryin' out for Miss America," he sneers. "None of this girl shit is doin' me any favors. This...glittery shit," he corrects, belatedly. "Y'know. Pretty shit."

Kristen pauses halfway to his face. Her eyes search him. He's not sure why she's intrigued by what he just said, but then the moment's done and she has such a shockingly strong grip on his hairline he forgets about it entirely. He hisses as she yanks his head back, trying to shed some light on the situation. "Ow! Watch it! That doesn't grow back!"

"Hey, buddy?" reminds Andy, from below his now ceiling-aimed line of sight. Eugh, Andy's right, it does grow back now. He flips the bird in the voice's direction anyway. Jeeves' drunken giggle makes him add the other hand. 

"Shaddap," he growls, then stiffens when Kristen elbows him in the gut. 

"Hold still, dummy."

He glowers at the ceiling. She scrubs his mouth viciously with something; oh, a paper towel. Then she tightens her grip in his hair again, shushes his snarl of pain, and slides the lipstick over his bottom lip.

The sensation of her movements is different from Jeeves' attempts -- or, for that matter, from Glenda's slapdash method, now that the sensation jogs that memory up. Neat, tidy strokes. They remind him of Tiffany when she applies makeup: simple but sure, practical and practiced. He still loves watching her touch up in a compact. She's so elegant about it. It's like art.

The devil of a woman pinning him down releases his hair, and he rights his gaze with a grumble about his kinked neck. She studies him, strangely intent, and then scrabbles through the makeup pile again. "Hey!" he snaps, but she's already got him by the nape, a fat, rounded brush starting to swish against one cheek. Fighting her every step of the way doesn't sound very fun, so he begrudgingly settles down, casting a look to the pot to make sure nothing's boiling over. He catches Andy's eye, just in time to see the man's throat bob.

It takes a second for him to find the logic behind what he's seeing; for a moment, he almost wonders if maybe Andy gets off on guys in makeup. Then he's sore at himself for how obvious the real answer is. Kid got horny on shift, and he's impatient for them to get home. Duh. No wonder; things have been hectic and it's been a while since...stuff...has happened. Look, he doesn't have to go into detail, okay? Piss off.

Point is, schedule has been pretty full with work and stress and Andy passing out on the couch. (Don't give him shit, it's not like he can _carry_ the guy to bed, jesus.) Probably was browsing porn when the store was quiet, like any healthy guy would, no shame there. Makes a hell of a lot more sense than Andy getting excited over watching his roommate get spa treatment.

He grins, making sure he's got Andy's full attention, and sticks his tongue out like a dog. It's always been a favorite move, taunting but inexorably lewd; puts guys off their game and girls on an intrigued edge. Kristen pauses in her touchup, glancing over her shoulder just in time to see Andy flushing and turning towards Jeeves, as if the other woman's howl of laughter doesn't completely give him away. Kristen's pretty nose crinkles in disgust. Chucky expects her to whirl back to him, throwing the paper towel in his face and demanding he scrub off the makeup, telling them both she doesn't want to see that shit in her house. (He couldn't blame her; you get an eyeful of Andy and that fucknuts Shelton getting hot n' heavy, you're not going to want to downgrade to Andy kissing his doll that made out with a lawnmower.) 

He yelps from shock more than pain when she grabs his bangs again. "Can you fucking not keep grabbin' -- " His wincing eyes meet her own, and he's startled to see she looks devious.

"Andy's here," she murmurs, almost too soft for him to catch, while Jeeves pours Andy another glass, snickering at whatever he's saying. "So now we've got to play nice, don't we, _meu querido?_ "

He gives her the sourest look in his arsenal, but the bitch of it is: she's right. Worse, she knows she is, so she looks positively pleased for the first time tonight as she gives neat, thoughtful little strokes of the brush over his cheeks. "I hate you. For the record," he informs her.

She grins, her white teeth positively gleaming with the kind of merciless glint he thought he had cornered the market on around here. He's resentfully impressed. His stomach clenches in nervous agreement. "I know."

Andy is looking at him with wide eyes again. He scowls at his roommate over Kristen's shoulder, feeling too hedged in to make another teasing face. He's rapidly losing what little control he had in the situation, and he doesn't like it. It's not _fair_. Kristen probably doesn't even know how to go for a jugular and get up under it on the first try.

Speaking of, the woman in question shifts her grip to the back of his head again, then brushes the side of her free hand up across his brow, as if smoothing it. "Stop it. I need to see your eyes, you're hiding them when you frown that much."

He gives her a shot of the wild-eye, the freaky all-whites flash he'd give panhandlers and potential muggers on the L line back when he was a kid and knew the first step in staying safe was letting the world know you were too crazy to be worth messing with. To his utter disappointment, she just _tsks_ and raps him on the head with the pencil she's holding. "Ow! Jesus! What's that?"

"Stop bitching and you'll see." She props the heel of her hand on his cheek, and suddenly the _very sharp_ point of the pencil is an inch from his left eye. "And hold _still_ , you whiny brat, I'd hate to _slip_."

Oh, the pain in his chest is because he's holding his breath. He lets it out in a shaky stream. "Kinda tough to see, I'm a little farsighted," he cracks weakly. The tiny black point -- dammit, it is pin-sharp ain't it -- dips to hover in front of his eye again. "Oop, nevermind, there it is."

"Close your left eye. Easy," she coaxes, and the undertone suggests he'll take it easy or see the consequences (if he can still see anything.) He takes a centering breath and closes both eyes, just in case she gets them mixed up. The faint, light scratches of the pencil-point along his eyelid are actually kind of ticklish, so he bites his bottom lip and tries not to move, finally allowing his feet to scuffle against each other nervously when the urge becomes overwhelming. That seems safe enough.

Jeeves and Andy have settled down. The quiet, combined with his closed eyes, make him drift restlessly with the waves of anxiety; he's abruptly reminded of Kent, and Jeeves' thoughtless hands on him. Oh, and the rage that followed, that always follows. Coiled and waiting, eager to spring, constantly warring between caution and fury. Even now the warmth is rising in him, heated in the pit of his body where rage always builds to an explosive height. 

Wait, hang on. 

His eyes snap open in shock as he locates the heat, realizing it's sitting a little lower than normal. Kristen curses, probably calling him something nasty, since he can understand the tone if not the words. "Watch it, I said closed eyes! You made me smear it!"

"Sorry," he stammers, too horrified by his discovery to fight her. He closes his eyes again and lets her scrub away without protest.

His mind is reeling. It's not a great realization that the sensation of hands on hair and mouth don't only remind him of lying in wait, now; that there's also sense memories of Andy, of being pinned, of being thrust down ( _into_ ) despite his best efforts. "Aw, _fuck_."

"What," asks Kristen with very little actual interest, trying again on his eyelid.

"Nothin'." He's aroused, but that's none of her goddamn business. What a mess. He's horny, and drunk, and upset that he's horny. Goddamn stupid dare. Stupid makeup. Stupid _Andy_ , stupid _sensations_ , stupid fucking feeling of hands in his hair and arms pinning him against the counter and a mouth pressed to his mouth -- "Why are you doin' my mouth again?" he snaps, finally noticing. "Make up your fuckin' mind!"

"This is gloss."

"Bullshit, this is gloss." He opens his eyes, glaring at the tube of faintly shimmery bullshit in her hand, then at her grin. "The fuck was the lipstick for, then?"

"That's color -- one of my favorites, by the way, that's my Marc Jacobs Infamous so don't wipe it off -- this goes over the top for shine. Makes your lips look inviting." She pops her lips at him, and somehow that neat little move is the rudest damn gesture he's gotten in years. How does she do it?

He makes do with a vicious lifted lip, knowing the scowl emphasizes his half-craggy face, makes him look extra mean. "Oh, god, finally. This time Prince Fucking Charming's gonna kiss me for sure."

Grinning, she takes his chin, turning his head this way and that to admire her work. "Damn right. What do you think, Andy, doesn't he make an adorable princess?"

She's lucky she's scary, or he'd kick her in the stomach, Andy be damned. She is scary, though, so he just smiles right back, knowing his eyes say _murder_ as clearly as his fanged tone does. "Yeah, you're a real miracle-worker, lady." He shoots Andy a look too, just in case he was thinking about laughing. _I know where you sleep,_ this look says. _And you know I fuckin' know that, so shut yer face or I'll slice it open_.

Andy blinks hard and quickly looks away. Jeeves cackles, pounding his back, and Chucky is left to watch them both get busy with the wine again. Jesus, haven't they had enough? They're clearly wasted.

"C'mon," says Kristen, sweeping the compacts and little tubes into her scooped-up shirt like a basket. "Let's eat."

And that's it. Like, completely it. They just set the table, serve out the _alcatra_ , and get down to chowing down. There's bits of chatter, mostly Kristen and Andy trading friendly jibes or updates from the week, Jeeves interjecting now and then. He's left feeling strangely detached.

It's disconcerting. He ends up thinking about Kent despite himself. Being manhandled in doll mode has always been infuriating; if he was a psychologist, he'd probably have some bullshit theory about it, like that maybe it calls back to childhood, being passed around, having no say in what happened to you. He's no psychologist, though, so he can confidently say it's so damn rage-inducing because who wouldn't get pissed, getting their head cracked against a door frame or on some stairs? It fires up a trapped energy that needs to vent, and venting, for him, has always happened in the world's most ancient and sensible way of dealing: by knifing whatever unfortunate motherfucker happens to be next to you.

Except he's not feeling super knife-y right now. Just confused, and angry, and out of touch. And horny, which makes him feel more confused, which makes him feel more angry. He ends up stabbing the pork more than it deserves.

Hell, it's not like he's screwed up. (Not in the sex way, we're talking. Rest of the ways, of course, different story. He's an adult, he can own his shit.) He's _normal_. Maybe the way he's feeling is normal. Shit, maybe _sex_ is actually the world's oldest and most sensible way of dealing...Cain and Abel had to come from somewhere, after all.

"Sorry," says Jeeves, "did you just say Cain and Abel?"

"I said gimme the salad," he snaps, realizing they're all looking at him. He stabs the lettuce more than it deserves, too. 

Kristen smiles at him across the table, and he hopes the eyeliner makes his glare absolutely Glenda levels of banging.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops guess it's three chapters they just keep squabbling

"Okay," he gripes, hitching himself sulkily up the stairs. "Your friends own the psychopath game in this town, and I say that as a professional."

Behind him, Andy says nothing. Chucky waits impatiently for the keys to jingle in the lock overhead, shoving the door as soon as it starts to crack open; if Andy makes a comment about the doorknob being yanked out of his hand, Chucky doesn't hear it. Probably doesn't, though. He's been quiet the whole way home.

None of Chucky's business; he's got other fish to fry. Namely, this shit's still on his face, and it needs to not be on his face, stat, before he makes that problem bigger than himself. Being pissed really brings out his talent for making his problems other peoples' problems. "Hey, gimme a chair, wouldja?" he hollers, already halfway to the bathroom. "Probably better off taking a shower, she slopped so much shit on there..."

Bone-deep instincts, the ones that honed themselves on Chicago streets, tell him someone's coming up behind him, and _fast_. He does what anyone in their right mind would do: he pulls a knife and turns to find out who needs their face rearranged.

" _Drop it,_ " says Andy, even damn closer than he realized, christ, too damn close for comfort, he's letting himself get rusty in this damn house, "Is that a fucking fish knife? Did I say you could have that?"

The worst part is, he almost dropped it. The flatline command in Andy's voice was so complete, he -- _he_ , Chucky, anarchy in the flesh -- loosened his grasp. Only automatic defiance to being told he can't have something saved him. He laughs, breathless with relief, and starts walking backwards. Knife up, eyes locked. For the first time tonight he feels like he's back on solid ground. This, at least, is familiar. Thank god.

Unfortunately, that thought reminds him of what had his confidence under the weather in the first place, and his eyes widen, an expression he's sure looks _great_ in that fucking _eyeliner_ he's still wearing. "Aw, jeezus!" He waves the knife towards Andy. "This is your fault, you piece of shit!"

"I said..." Oh, _christ_. The man's _fast_. He clears the gap before Chucky can even get the knife flipped around for defense; Andy's left hand plows his wrist into the wall so hard he howls, shocked he didn't hear something snap. "Drop it!"

He's not a southpaw, but killers make do. He cracks Andy across the jaw with a left hook that's got none of the power he'd have if he could use his dominant hand; it's enough, though, that Andy's body jerks back, the click of his snapped-together teeth immensely satisfying. "Fuck off!"

Andy's expression as he turns back is fascinating. It's calm. A little disappointed. Normally the disappointment would be making Chucky's chest crimp in discomfort, bothering him until he found a way to erase it (or accidentally make it worse; he's still honing the skill.) The light in the dark brown eyes is familiar, though, and frankly it's too distracting for him to think about fixing his mistakes.

It's eagerness. Something has his boy in a real rip. Something was already rooting around in his belly, searching for an exit. Andy can't _wait_ to tear into him over this. 

Goddamn it, it makes Chucky's guts boil with hunger.

"When did you take that?" Andy plucks the knife from his stiff fingers. They're going numb in his punishing hold, which is the only way he got it that easy; normally Chucky's rules of priority are _keep knife, survive, murder major annoyances_ , in exactly that order. Andy makes only the briefest show of confirming the knife is his, glancing at the brand on the handle, before easily snapping it closed with a flick of his wrist. (And doesn't that savvy little move make Chucky's stomach do another backflip.) "How long have you had that hidden?"

"Bite me," he leers, fascinated by how Andy's only containment attempt thus far is his wrist. There's a lot of injury you can cause with a little range of movement and an unhealthy lack of concern for your own safety. There's a lot of room for trouble between them. He watches with rapt attention as the man taps his chest with the folded knife. Doesn't Andy know his other hand is still free?

"Forget stealing, how do you think our friends would feel, knowing you brought this into their house?"

" _Our_ friends?" The laugh bolts out of him before he even knows it's coming. "And they call me the crazy one!"

The chuckle dies in his throat when he feels the chilly metal handle dig under his chin. It's unfortunate that this point of contact means his eager swallow is transmitted directly to Andy's fingers. There's not much he can do about it, either; he knows the man's strength and reflexes a little too well by now to think he could make him forget the glimpse of weakness by lashing forward. 

You don't get anywhere by jumping Andy Barclay. Your best bet is to try and throw him off his rhythm, catching him off-balance. You'll still probably lose, but you might get a shot or two in, might get some real depth, and sometimes you just gotta take what you can get. If he can get enough leverage against Andy's hold to kick forward --

"After all the work they did," says Andy, and the metal breaks contact for a moment. Chucky isn't sure whether to frown or snarl when it touches his bottom lip, cold, rounded edge brushing back and forth thoughtfully. "I mean, they made you up so nice for me."

Oh, definitely snarl. He puts some real venom into it, because at the moment he's got real venom to give. The thought of the makeup ruining his killer image is making him swell with anger, and while Andy isn't always the source of Chucky's inner disgust, he's usually a good target for it. He puts in the growl and everything, the one that starts a little lower than you'd expect so it throws you bad after hearing such a scratchy, high laugh. It's like hearing the cock of a gun after someone shuts off the bar's radio. It says: things have gone south, and you need to leave.

"Oh, don't try that with me," coos Andy, and presses the metal harder, dimpling his bottom lip.

His options are to bite the damn knife handle (poor) or push it out of his face with his free hand (more practical, but less theatrical, and if there's one thing Chucky likes it's theater.) He hasn't made his decision yet when the metal knocks hard against his grimace -- hard enough to sting in his gums, like the shock of ice on a bad tooth -- and Andy's soothing voice smears his plotting brain all out of order. "Are you gonna let me in, or do I need to bust a few teeth?"

Not a soothing voice like comfort. ' _Soothing like novocaine_ ,' Chucky realizes, a chill washing over his body. Andy's tone is calming, and it's kept him docile. They're not playing, but he's been playing around. The dark eagerness in Andy's eyes says he's already too caught in this trap to make it out alive, but he went ahead and got _comfortable_ anyway because Andy was using his _polite_ voice. 

' _Dammit! You fucking know this shit, you dumb bitch!_ '

Another painful rap against his teeth. He parts them, partially for time to regroup, partially out of a twisted need to see what route Andy takes. Is this what addiction is like? His brain is working on facts, assessing whether Andy's grip has loosened any, judging the distance to the bedroom door and whether he can reach the lock in time, but his body is thrumming with the sensation of getting caught up in this dangerous maze. With all the nerves firing off, he can't think straight when he gets like this, when Andy gets like this. All he can think is _more_.

The knife handle is heavy on his tongue, awkward and cold. He glowers up at Andy through mascara-thickened lashes, then tries to turn the look into a leer. It doesn't last when the knife starts an easy, regular thrusting, in and out. Andy chuckles at his expression. "Don't make that face."

He does his best to kill any signs of enthusiasm; lips peeled back in a snarl, nose wrinkled in aggressive disgust, he lets the metal slip back and forth without any engagement. Then Andy presses down, rounded handle flattening Chucky's tongue like he's checking his tonsils. And he keeps pressing down. 

Chucky goes, unwilling at first, then with resentment when he realizes Andy will keep the pressure on enough to bruise his tongue if he doesn't. Andy bends him, head tilted forward, tongue out, eyes turned up in furious but cautious attention. They study each other. A smile tugs at Andy's mouth. "You look good like this."

Like what? Mouth forced open? In makeup? Backed against a wall? He can't ask, the metal pinning his tongue painfully to his jaw. He tries to keep from drooling, but Andy notices saliva tracking at the corner of his lips and just chuckles again. "She was right, you know."

He tries to say _Fuck you, I don't want to hear it, and also fuck you_ with his eyes. It must get across at least a little, because the knife handle pushes further in, making him gag, tears starting to prickle threateningly. Andy releases his wrist abruptly, and he barely has it pulled back to himself, rubbing it painfully, searching for injury, before he hears the clink of Andy's belt buckle being undone.

Confession: it is unfair how immediately, _ferociously_ hard that sound makes him these days. It's those fucking dogs with the bell, what do you call it, fucking _Pavlovian_. He would despise it if it didn't make his toes curl so hard in desperate want. He still despises it.

He wants to despise it, at least, and that must count for something.

"You've got such a cute mouth," Andy says, and Chucky grabs his pressing arm in both hands, which is good. He also tries pushing upwards, instead of just twisting Andy's wrist until it snaps, which is madness. This boy has made him nuttier than a Goodbar. There's no other explanation for why he's not fighting like a wildcat right now, screeching and clawing; no other acceptable reason for why he only snarls angrily as the man guides his erect cock out of his fly and against Chucky's cheek. "And you thought it'd be fun to make me wait all night, stuck across the table, just thinking about everything I could make it do?"

"Thtupid," is the idiotic noise that comes out around the intrusion in his mouth, and he wants to break his own wrist for that brilliant move. Thankfully, Andy pulls the knife handle out, and Chucky releases his arm to try and finagle a little more breathing room. "That was your stupid bitch friends --"

It must be said, he didn't have to let Andy get away with sliding his dick in; he could have ducked and run, or simply kept his teeth closed and denied entry, or even just smacked it out of his damn face. But it's such a ballsy (no pun intended) risk, letting someone radiating as much fury as he is anywhere near your junk, that he's got to admit he's impressed. 

Besides, it'll be fun to play nice for a second. The hurt's always better after a fakeout. Andy will happily hurt him right back, of course, but it'll be worth it, and then he'll get to have a satisfying mouthful for a moment, too.

Except the stretching weight of Andy's cock isn't halfway along his tongue before Andy flicks the knife open, barely needing any motion of his hand to snap the blade flat against Chucky's cheek. The tip stops what can't be more than a centimeter from Chucky's eye. 

Pride notwithstanding, he swallows, a move that earns him a throaty sigh in response. That was one of only a dozen knives on the display he nicked it from. Andy can't know the length of every blade in his shop _that_ well...can he?

"Oh, button," murmurs the man, and Chucky can actually feel the knifepoint catch on his thick lashes, flicking them lazily up just to make his eyelid twitch. He swallows again. Andy doesn't push in any further, just stands there, like this is exactly where he wants to be, dick halfway down someone's throat and face a few inches from the hallway paint. The knifepoint traces what Chucky has to assume is the outer line of his eyeshadow. "You look like you weren't ready for this. Did you get in over your head?"

He scowls furiously, fists working at his sides, but there isn't much room for retort; he can't move back when he's already against a wall, he's got no interest in moving forward just to gag himself, and he's certainly not going to risk slipping sideways, not with that damn fish knife playing around his eye socket. Andy's other hand reaches down to start carding through his hair, nails scratching his scalp, and he hates the way it only makes him hungrier to open his mouth wide in submission. 

Oh yeah, he definitely hates it. Totally. 

Slowly, almost lovingly, Andy starts thrusting, as patient as he had been with the knife. Chucky closes his eyes in rage and tries not to look like he's into it. Apparently that's not possible, because he hears the earnest pleasure in Andy's sigh. "God, you were _made_ for this."

He presses his fists to the wall behind him, then flattens his palms against it, eyes scrunched shut, nose wrinkled. It's such a strange way to be trapped; he feels like he's being pulled apart, taffy-slow. He can't fight back, but he can't let himself go, either. They've hardly fought. Andy hasn't earned his submission, and god knows Chucky doesn't just _give_ it. He _has_ to fight back. It's. It's one of the _rules_.

Every sense he has rests on a single knifepoint tracing lightly across his skin, and the longer Andy forces him to stay there, pliant, letting the hot flesh glide in and out of his mouth, the more weight gathers on that cold point. He feels electric. His stomach is a bundle of energy and his skin is almost sore from aborted movement. His muscles threaten to twitch. His nails start to scratch at the wall, desperate, helpless. Still Andy draws him out. 

God, _melting_ was less painful. At least melting happens fast. None of this psychological bullshit, his insides unspooling slowly into a volcanic pit of need.

"Good job," the man says, finally, and Chucky cannot help the ugly groan of relief that escapes him when the knife and cock both withdraw. He shoves himself away from the wall, fists up, as Andy tucks himself -- still erect, the hell -- away calmly. 

"You fucking bastard, I'll _gut_ you if you ever pull that shit again!"

"Not today."

It's said with such confidence, he actually pauses to stare. Andy flicks the knife closed, pocketing it, and then snakes his loosened belt free; he folds it over, giving it a yank, and the hard _snap_ of the leather against itself makes Chucky's lip curl in defiance but all his body heat rush to his crotch in treacherous enthusiasm. Jesus, this kid is going kill him, and not the way he's used to. "Says _who?_ You, you fuckin' ass?"

"Today you're gonna go and get on the bed, aren't you?"

"Like _hell_ I am! Why?" he screeches, but his body takes a step sideways while he does, and not in the direction away from the bedroom, either. He and his traitor body can have a discussion later. Right now it's infinitely more important to watch Andy watching him, weight leaned so lazily on one jutted hip that only a very experienced observer would know how blink-quick the man could throw all that weight forward in a lethal lunge. A bystander might think Andy's watching him with disinterest, barely willing to consider pursuit. 

Most big cats, a panther, say, can pull the stunt. Chucky's studied it well, not to mention used it well, over the years. It's a neat little trick. Most big cats like it when you fall for it, too.

Oh, there's no two ways about it: he's fucked.

It's not like they've discussed rules for this crazy song-and-dance they've been doing for two decades, but that long into anything, you start to figure out the steps. He knows Andy would listen if he just asked; all he has to do is drop the strutting, grumble about not feeling up to a spat, and amble back into the bathroom to clean his face, and Andy will ease back into that silly little show he gives most people, the one where he's prey. He'll probably whinge off to the living room and drink some more, conking out on the couch like he's been doing. They don't have to do this.

Trouble is, he doesn't want to not do it. He doesn't want Andy to put the rabbit mask back on. What he _wants_ is for this man to break him like a _toothpick_. 

So he takes another step towards the bedroom, but a backwards one, because he has to keep showing Andy his front. He can't be doing this willingly. Even a killer has standards.

Andy's got standards, too, and Chucky's disobedience is clearly falling short of them. He can tell by the eager gleam in the man's eye as he eases forward a step, keeping them close. "Because you got all dolled up for me. Look at you. That's my favorite color of lipstick, did you know that? I'll bet it looks good smeared on the base of my cock."

 _Jesus_. This boy is going to _kill_ him, and that's if his raging hardon doesn't kill him _first_.

His tongue is out and he's grinning and he's so fucking hard he's going tunnel-visioned. "You think I did this for you?" As far as the makeup is concerned, they're at least five miles out of his comfort zone, but Andy, that fucker, he does this. It's like Chucky takes one look at him and nothing could ever hurt him, like the whole world is open to roam in, because Andy's in it. So it's scary but he flutters his lashes in his best Tiffany impression, leering. Plays it the only way he knows, which is theatrical and crass. "Well, _fuck_ your cock, because I just like looking good."

Andy gives one bark of laughter, and Chucky sees the sign, the half-inch twitch of his arms as his weight shifts almost imperceptibly. Then they're both off, Chucky only keeping a step ahead from a lifetime of being hunted as well as hunting; Andy has been studying, though, has spent a lot of years being the hunter too. Besides, in strides, it's no match to begin with. Chucky barely gets into the bedroom before Andy's got an arm around his waist and is swinging him up over a shoulder. 

It used to make him furious when someone did that. Just like the weird diversion from rage to interest in the girls' kitchen, though, he feels his energy go strange when Andy hefts him up one-handed, the rage exploding out into heat in his cheeks and a definite interest down south. It's weird and uncontrollable, confusing and incredible. It sends his whole brain into a tailspin. It's like the focused high of hunting, but every bit of crazy energy is rocketing through his body in a positive feedback loop instead of eventually being released. He was smart enough to avoid the harder stuff when he lived on the street, but Andy makes him realize he dodged a real bullet there: if this is half what cocaine does to you, he'd never recover.

Goddamn it. He might be addicted to Andy Fucking Barclay.

He claws at the man's back, nails catching hard enough that he knows he's leaving marks. The thought makes him cackle. He's expecting to be tossed down on the bed, already calculating which angle to scramble away at, but is unpleasantly surprised when Andy instead grips the nape of his hairline and twists his head around, forcing a face-to-face. The man's other arm is misleadingly loose, just barely supporting him against Andy's side. He clutches at Andy's shirt instinctively. If Andy lets up any he'll be hanging by his hair, and he knows from experience that's a shit way to hang.

"The eyeshadow's cute," says Andy, because of course he can't let Chucky throw that pipe bomb and run. He has to make him stick around, deal with the collateral damage of the makeup being directly addressed.

He scowls, defensive, trying to remember to wear it with confidence. "Try again, with feeling."

"I mean it. Makes your mean baby blues look almost sweet."

"Take me home to meet your mother, see how sweet I am," he retorts automatically, before his stupid, stupid brain catches up, just one second too late to ask how the hell he didn't realize what old chestnut he was lobbing. Who he was lobbing it to.

He's not sure which one of them tenses harder. He stares into Andy's dark eyes, mouth open. No matter how hard his lungs clench, he's unable to get an apology past his suddenly dry throat.

" _Oh_ ," breathes Andy, and the hand in his hair twists so hard Chucky cries out. He gasps in a sob as his body is dropped, sudden freefall almost immediately stopped short by the grip in his hair, sending a violent shock through his scalp. He tries to cling to the man's hip with his legs, hands scrabbling at Andy's gripping arm, the red-hot pain in his roots easily squeezing tears out. He can't get enough leverage to pull himself up, not at the angle Andy's hanging him at, and his heels and thighs bang uselessly against the man's side.

Andy throws him. It's like before, getting tossed by his hair without a thought for the landing. He hits the bed only halfway, legs off one side, and despite his desperate scrabble for the blankets his momentum carries him all the way over. Thanks to the skid on the mattress, he hits the floor without the _crunch_ his ears had been waiting for; he lands on his side, though, one arm trapped under him, and has to scramble like the devil to get onto his hands and knees, then just knees, then to stand --

Andy appears over the side of the bed, staring down, and Chucky fucking _jumps_. "Fuck you!" he screams automatically, because that's usually a good placeholder while he gets his bearings on a situation that's spiraled beyond his control. 

In this case maybe it's a poor call. Andy's eyes hood, and then he drops. It's not even a lunge. It's almost like he just falls forward. A simple fall wouldn't land him so neatly, though: Chucky chokes on his own exhale as he's struck down again, the wind knocked right out of him as his back hits the floor. Andy's hands aren't touching him, just framing either side of his head, but his knees are planted right in Chucky's wide hips. He gulps frantically for air, Andy watching his noiseless swallows, and the second his lungs can expand correctly again he shrieks in pain.

Andy watches with something frighteningly close to interest. Then he shifts a knee, digging deeper into Chucky's lower gut, and the doll lets out another yowl. " _Andy!_ "

"You _wish_." The ice in his voice is so deep, Chucky feels the first real stab of fear he's felt all night. He's been scared, sure, but scared of how uncomfortable he might get, scared of how close to vulnerable Andy might get him. This is the first time he's felt actual fright. "You _wish_ I'd bring you to meet my mom."

"Andy!" Small hands pounding frantically at anything in reach -- Andy's chest, his elbows, his throat -- he tries to wriggle free, but the blows are wild and they don't land right. There's a malevolent serenity to the way Andy takes the hits, coughing a little but otherwise still. The irrevocable steadiness of him, weight continuing to ease down until it feels like the bones in his hips are being forced apart, makes Chucky's hysteria only rise. He chokes on his own spittle, pleas sounding wet and desperate. " _Fuck_ you get off _fuck_ fuck _please_ \--"

"My mother invited you into her house." His babble abruptly switches to shocked gurgles as Andy's hands press around his throat, the clutch almost as agonizing as the weight on his hips. He looks up and sees something like distraction in Andy's eyes, and realizes, with a pale wash of horror, that it's the face of someone lost in memory.

"Andy _jesus_ you piece of _shit_ \--"

"She brought you in. She brought you in for _me_ , and you fucking _ruined_ her."

Andy looks like he's staring out a window, or watching scenery go by in a car. Distant, detached. God, no, not right now. Not right -- not when they were trying to -- not right now, for fuck's sake. Literally. Chucky's had his sins come back to haunt him at some bad times but --

"You destroyed her house and killed her friend and took her home, because you're an ungrateful little _bastard_."

His body is arching like a rabbit caught in a trap, nails scratching helplessly at the backs of Andy's hands, fear stark in his croaking voice. His hips feel like they're going to snap. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Jesus christ, Andy, I'm sorry, I didn't know --"

"Didn't know what? That you'd _regret it?_ That someday you'd realize it was a _horrible thing to do?_ That you probably fucking _knew_ it was, and you didn't fucking _care?_ "

"I'm sorry!" he babbles wetly, spit leaking from the corner of his mouth, tears of pain trickling cold into his own ears. "I didn't -- I was wrong -- I shouldn't -- _christ_ , Andy, please --"

"Please _what?_ " the man growls, pushing his face into Chucky's, and Chucky can't keep from shaking with sobs when his desperate hacks for air only fleck wetness against Andy's cheek. The pain in his throttled throat is so bad, he's shocked there isn't blood.

"I don't know! Whatever you want!"

"I want my mom back, you sick fuck," snarls Andy, and smashes their teeth together in what can only be a kiss.

His lungs are burning. His vision is blurring, dark edges pulsing in and out with each throb of his heartbeat. Andy's mouth locks over his, hot and gnawing, and his heaving sniffs barely seem to get enough oxygen to keep him from passing out. Andy's tongue is thick between his teeth and he opens for it eagerly, desperate to pull the man further in. His hands leave Andy's to claw into his hair and yank, trying to mash them closer together, trying to pull Andy's lips and tongue and teeth _inside_. He wants Andy to _eviscerate_ him. He wants the man to scour him clean with sharp fangs, scrape out every awful poisonous cranny of him until he's empty and shining as a church alcove. He wants to be _consumed._

Andy kisses him until he's not certain there isn't blood on his teeth, the drag of tongues and cheeks against his canines rubbing half the soft flesh in his mouth raw. He stays open when Andy retreats, panting, tongue out. It's not enough. He needs to be shucked like an oyster. He wants Andy inside him like blood poisoning. He wants Andy to clear him out and start him over like a forest fire.

"You're nothing anyone would want near their parents," hisses Andy. "I wouldn't let you near a dog I liked."

"Please," he pants, trying to grab anything: flannel sleeves, collar, Andy's shoulder. Andy collects both his wrists in one broad hand, pinning them above his head, smashing them down until the carpet chews into his skin. He bucks, shrieking in protest at the refusal. "Andy! Andyandy _please_ I won't, please, don't put me down."

"Tried that," murmurs Andy, close to his ear, knees easing off his thighs. The staggering relief is almost enough to distract him, making him groan in gratitude even as Andy grips his bruised hip hard enough to make a stab of pain bolt right up the same nerve pathway. "Couple times, in fact. Funny how it didn't take."

He yowls again when Andy flips him, the carpet burning his hands, legs tangling painfully beneath him. He struggles to get onto his knees, grunting in shock when Andy drops an elbow right into his kidneys, and falls flat on his face. " _Oof!_ "

"Stay down." 

"No no _no_ Andy I'm _sorry!_ "

"Sorry doesn't fix it," Andy informs him, and even though the man isn't touching him, other than the ferocious grip on his wrists, he doesn't try to get up again. He turns his head out of the cheap polyester carpet, spitting fuzz and his own bangs, trying to grab the right words out of the air. He has no idea what they would even sound like.

"Please," he gasps. The carpet tastes like sand and dirty plastic. "What do you _want?_ "

Andy doesn't answer.

"Andy!" He doesn't dare try to move. His hands are throbbing. "Jesus, Andy, I can't -- I don't know what to do, I don't know what I've _got_ for you. Please."

"You didn't have much before. Then you took everything from me. And you can't give any of it back, can you?"

"I wish I could!"

"If wishes were horses," says Andy gently, and the man's free hand grips his bangs, yanking his head up sharply. He's horrified to realize they've ended up in front of the floor-length mirror; now he can see himself, and what a damn sight he is.

Jesus christ. He's seen meth heads who looked better. The eyeshadow Kristen had so thoughtfully applied is blurred to a trailing mess, shimmer and tear-tracks following the round baby-fat of his blushed cheeks. The gloss is long gone, but his lolling tongue has apparently been doing that job well enough, spit making his lips slick and puffy; the pink on them is striped towards his chin and nose in lines too violent to say 'makeout'. More like 'massacre'. 

"Stop makin' me look," he demands, and it sounds so meek, so unhopeful, it barely registers as his own voice. He couldn't frighten a child with that tone. He tries to bolster it up, but even the infuriating sight of his makeup-smeared visage can't gain headway against the looming specter of Andy's glaring eyes, his lifted lip. Chucky struggles, then, needing his fists free to smash that horrible expression right off the mirror; he'll wipe it out with bloody hands, if need be. He's always been good at covering his mistakes with blood. "Fuck you! Fuck you!"

"Maybe." Andy rests a hand on his upper back, fingers spread, mapping out his shoulder blades. His eyes lift, meeting Chucky's in the mirror. "I mean, beggars would ride, right? You gonna ride your way out of this?"

The writhing stills. He stares into the man's eyes, desperate, not quite ready to trust hope; not when he's got such an ugly face between them, so marred and macabre on the outside it almost matches the inside. "Andy, _please_."

"You're a fucking bastard." He hunches down, chin brushing Chucky's hair, to whisper right to his reflection. "You're lucky I even want you on my dick."

"Andy, please," he repeats, stronger, not wanting to believe it but willing to try. There's no way the man could stomach getting off if he has to look at this face -- not with the snot, the colors, the everything. But it doesn't matter. He tries anyway. "I'll be so _good_ for you."

It triggers the crook of a half-smile, just like he prayed it would. Andy's armored-up worse than anybody, but he's got his weak points, just the same, and Chucky is starting to learn their locations. There's a gleam of amusement in Andy's eyes, and it echoes the wry tone of his voice, as if the man knows he responded as expected. "Oh, is that so."

"I will, I will!"

"Yeah?" Andy's hand leaves his back; he watches, confused, as the man reaches towards a back pocket, then sees his own eyes widen in shock at the belt he's retrieving. The look of surprise would be comical on anyone else's face. On his own it's enormously humiliating. Andy chuckles, leaning forward again, and easily trades his grip for a few swift knots of the belt; he's so quick at the awkward task, thick leather rough and clunky around such a small pair of wrists, he must have practiced. Chucky has no idea what to call the churn of arousal that thought stirs in his belly. "Forgot I had this?"

"No," he snaps automatically, because it's obvious he had. Because the shock of sexual interest to his emotionally wrought system is throwing him head over heels, and the only defense he knows when he's off-balance is defiance. He thought he was at the end of his rope only a moment ago, past transgressions returning to haunt him, a lack of options seeming insurmountable -- then Andy grips his hair again, tugging lightly but with intent, and he's flabbergasted to see the way his own expression slips at the edges with obvious arousal.

"Knew I'd want my hands free."

"Fuck you," he says, more to his own reflection than anything. He's inches from rock bottom, and somehow his mind has found a little stockpile of churlishness. Is he insane? No, strike that, is he _this_ insane? He cannot possibly be feeling thrill coursing through his limbs, cannot possibly be actually salivating from hunger. There's a harrowing ache throughout his body, a need pulsing stronger than the pain and exhaustion, and it cannot _possibly_ be desire. He refuses to _let_ it be. That would be losing.

Andy's fingers scrub his scalp, affectionate. "That was the idea, wasn't it?"

It was, wasn't it? Didn't it somehow seem, if not a fair trade, the only trade he had? For what -- for Andy's forgiveness? For sins unforgiveable? His brain is heating into a churning mess. "I -- I guess --"

"Oh, I don't think either of us were guessing." Andy nuzzles his hair, hooded gaze almost...fond.

Oh, god, he wants it. He wants it with every overheated, shaking, lusting cell of his body. He watches his own expression falter, almost prayerful. "...Andy, I dunno what to say. Please."

"Please what?"

"I _dunno!_ " His face crumples in bratty, teary rage, and it's disconcerting. Is this what he always looks like when he loses his temper? Has his whole life been a series of tantrums? He has the dreadful feeling Tiffany would laugh and say it had taken him long enough to notice.

"Really? You don't want anything? You don't have anything to say to me?"

"I want you to fuck me!" he wails, blue eyes blazing, and for a moment his reflection looks almost foreign, transcendent in its lust and desperation and rage. "I want to be _yours,_ I wanna cut out every part of me that hurt you, I wanna fill me up with nothing but _you!_ "

Andy looks as surprised by the outburst as he feels. It must be the triumph of knowing he's finally thrown Andy that keeps him babbling, words tumbling out of him despite the rising blush of humiliation on his cheeks. "God, Andy, I'll do _anything,_ I'll wear whatever you want and I'll take you in so _nice_. I'll take you like a fucking _whore_."

The shocked stare in the mirror is more fascinating than his own ruined face, and that's saying something. Andy looks like he tries to curl his lip in disgust, but the motion turns into a lick of his upper teeth instead, tongue tracing a canine hungrily. Chucky feels his entire belly actually _cramp_ with greed.

"Come on," he breathes, subtly shifting his knees. If Andy feels his cautious squirming, he makes no sign; it's like he's entranced with their mirror stare, and Chucky's open display. The smaller man keeps shifting in half-inches, kidneys throbbing warningly at the memory of being elbowed flat, and prays Andy will stay off-balance long enough to be lured in. They don't have to end the night in another lonely, angry standoff. His crimes don't have to stop the festivities. He can pull Andy further into the shadows, but it's such a fine line, wavering between getting him fired up and reminding him of soured history; maybe the pleas were too much? "Come on, kid," he repeats, lightly, and runs his own tongue mockingly over his teeth. "What, ya scared?"

Andy's hand twists as harshly as he'd expected, making him cringe, but the other hand swings up to grip his scarred throat in a reminder of dominance. Perfect. Keeps that pinning elbow out of range, gives him more time to get the rest of his body into position. Andy's being so helpful, too, settling so low he's almost on his hands and knees over the doll's back. "Does this look scared?"

Inch by inch, he eases his knees forward, starting to get his back half up. "So show me."

The hand at his throat clamps tight. Andy's eyes are glimmering, this close in the reflection, shot through with winks of torch-bright eagerness. "You don't want me to."

"Promises, promises," he rasps. To his dismay, he doesn't see Andy twitch when his ass finally lifts high enough to bump against the man's hips; Andy assesses him in the mirror, unimpressed.

"You can't think I didn't notice that."

He whines, caught out, but unwilling to give up. "So you let me fuckin' do it, so what? You're as fucked as me, Andy Barclay, and you ain't a saint for it!"

"Brat," snorts Andy, releasing his throat. He sucks air into his grateful lungs, then squirms his hips, satisfied when the repeated friction gets a flinch out of Andy this time. The man lets out a whoosh of air that might be heated with frustration, but might just be heated -- and does it really matter, in the end? As a regular victim of Tiffany's exquisite handling, Chucky knows it can often lead to the same result. You just need to push until something gives.

With that thought, he muscles through the humiliation, locking eyes with his own reflection. He sticks his small tongue out -- god, even that's got stitches, what a mess --and hopes his swollen, glistening pink lips look inviting. Incredibly, Andy's eyes go to watch this, like he can't stop himself. 

It cannot be his physical form that has the man hooked; he's delusional, according to the court documents, but even he's not _that_ delusional. If the makeup and the prostration, the fire and the friction are enough, though, then thank the Lwa they're enough, and he'll take every inch he can get his greedy little hands on. "C'mon," he coaxes, unsure if the flushed color in his face is the blush or his own arousal. "Baby boy, I'm on my goddamn _knees_ for you. You gotta know what comes next."

The man he loves, the man who sometimes hates him and rightfully so, the man he cannot live without and will die with, again and again, his terrible curse -- Andy loosens the fierce grip on his hair, fingers trailing down the nape of his neck, tracing a line down his back. He holds his breath. 

Andy's finger hooks into his pants hem, tugging too lightly to shift anything. "You're a brat if you think you can always beg your way out of things. You thought you were sneaky, didn't you? You can't catch me off my guard anymore, Chucky."

"Don't call me that," he says. It's not a thought-out response. It's gut. He sees in the surprised way Andy's eyes flick to his in the reflection just how left-field it is for both of them.

"Oh?"

He'll sing for Erzulie Freda if his body is leading him honestly. He'll lay out the white silk and the pink silk, he'll find her rings, gold even, her favorite metal. "Yeah," he says, and works his hips slowly, tongue caught between his teeth, eyes hooding in desire. "Try something else."

Andy catches a harsh inhale in his throat, then exhales his words, thoughtful, intrigued. "Why?"

He'll gift Metres Erzulie pink flowers and rice pudding, he'll place the white silk on an altar for her every Thursday for a month. "I don't wanna hear it right now. I don't care who I am. I want to be _yours_."

Andy's hand slips easily beneath his waistband, strong fingers locking over the painful bruises on his hip; he gasps, dark lashes fluttering, and doesn't break eye contact. Andy watches him so close it's almost more intimate than the slow grind between their hips. " _Chucky's_ mine, I think. My mom _gave_ him to me."

It feels almost like prayer, the promises flooding desperately through him, the pulse of his own hungry heart a metronome timing the rocking of his body against his lover's. Sometimes-lover. Sometimes-enemy. ' _Mater Dolorosa, weeping for her heart's desire...I'll clean the whole house, every inch, I'll lay basil in every room. Metres Erzulie, sweet scented water I'll pour for you_.' "I'm tired of it. Too many people have said that name and thought they owned me."

"We both know who owns you."

"Guess not like a fucking whore, then." Erzulie, mistress who goes weeping. He closes his eyes, envisioning a white candle burned down all the way, a desperate promise of the service he'll perform for her, if only she lets him perform services for this man first. "Guess I'll take you like a mistress."

He can feel the iron hardness of Andy's length against him, and it makes him want to scream in frustrated want. Andy's hand just spreads across the front of his thigh, fingertips stroking skin, nowhere near where he wants them to be. "Yeah? How's that?"

He envisions the ring of white wax on the altar, then opens his eyes. He grins fearlessly into the mirror. "Repeatedly, enthusiastically, and whenever you want. Or is that wife? Fuck me if I've ever done this right. Christ, I'm trying. Lemme do it right with you." He locks his knees, stilling, thrilled to feel the staggered halt of Andy's hips a moment behind his own because the man had started to grind with him. He stretches his bound hands out, spread fingertips brushing the mirror, and presses his ass insistently up. "Call me lover," he coos at their merged reflection. "Chucky's great, but that's on my ex's tits, you know? Call me doll. Call me bastard."

Andy's fingers rake into his skin, dragging his hips harder against the man's jeans. "You've never been called bastard, huh?"

"Jesus," he giggles, high, breathless, almost hysterical. "Jesus, kid, I don't _care_. Call me toy. Call me doll. Call me whore, call me cocksleeve, call me lunch. Eat me alive. Call me the night's entertainment. Call me your bitch," he chants. "Call me dead in an hour, _I don't care_. Call me -- _christ_ , Andy Barclay, call me _yours_."

The man's hand clamps so hard over his cock he squeals in pain, half from the pressure, half from the collateral agony of Andy's forearm pistoning against his bruised hip. He whines to his own tearing-up face. "Fuck me, fuck me, Andy!" Andy's other arm chokes around his soft stomach, snaps his hips further up until he's almost standing, aching fingers burning on the carpet as he scrabbles for balance. "Face-down, ass-up, roll me over and we'll do it again!"

"Working on it, you impatient little shit," snarls Andy, and Chucky cackles wildly at that, even as his sobs of pain burst out in wet bubbles between his laughter. The arm that had yanked him almost to his feet shifts again, bumping his bruised hip, and he can see Andy fumbling for the nightstand next to them, trying to reach the drawer with lube. The man curses, angrier than Chucky's heard him in a month, and then gets close to his ear so fast it's like a snake-strike. "Don't you goddamn move."

"Yessir," he hiccups, still riding out the last of the wild laughter. Andy shows his teeth in the happiest snarl Chucky's ever seen on a face besides his own and slams the back of his head so hard it's a miracle the doll's snub nose doesn't break against the carpet.

Andy's gone -- body heat, contact, hands, pain -- he's gone suddenly and Chucky writhes with the loss, trailing giggles turning immediately into small, burbled moans. Andy left him in a position so painful and awkward he's not sure he can maintain it, on his feet but front half sprawled onto the floor, back forced to do such a cruel curve his hips are screaming without any touch at all. His round thighs are shaking from the strain; he can see them in the mirror, ass framed neatly behind his own debauched face. He closes his eyes and wails.

"I'm here, jesus." Andy sinks back down over him like a blanket, every inch of the man exuding heat like a fucking radiator, he's so live-wire. He unlocks his knees with a sob of relief, careless of the painful speed at which Andy is stripping his lower half. "Keep your head on your shoulders, you drama queen."

"Now," he demands, sounding imperious even though he's bent nearly double and shaking and weeping and half-naked. "Nownow _now_."

"Do you _ever_ stop," says Andy, and Chucky doesn't understand the way his broad hand is applying lube so liberally, but so out of place: his fingers drag up and down the insides of Chucky's thighs, massage over his balls, drag slickly over his taint and then pull away with no touch where it counts. He can feel Andy shifting forward onto his knees in preparation.

The fear of what will happen without being stretched at all is a cold stone in his lungs, but it's like his own body is beyond his control, puppeted by a desire stronger than he is. "Split me apart! Fuck me _ragged_ , fuck me _dead!_ " He chants for Andy's cock like he chants a prayer. It's a hunger more primal than survival. No matter; he's died for less. "You'll wake up and I'll be on your doorstep, begging to go again, just _fuck me!_ " 

Both of the man's hands clamp down on his hips, right over the sprawling bruises his knees had left. Chucky's chin actually leaves the carpet, despite his painful arch, he shrieks so loud. " _Augh!_ " Andy ignores him, squeezing harder, and the sobs whipsaw out of his already abused throat. " _Wait_ waitwait _Andy!_ "

"There, there," Andy murmurs, and stabs into him so fast that for one heart-stopping moment he thinks he's been impaled just like that, no preparation. He inhales sharply, ready to scream, but then his brain kickstarts again and identifies the burning all up and down his lower half as not agony but simply Andy's own bare skin, kissed hard against his legs and back, heated to an actual fever with lust.

Andy's hard cock is slipped between his thighs, shaft resting up against his own. The man presses harder, forcing his thighs tighter together, and starts a forceful rhythm, lube-slicked cock dragging back and forth across every nerve bundle and soft spot Chucky has.

His eyes roll back in his head so hard, so fast, he almost _sprains_ something. The noises that escape his mouth don't sound like _words_. The repeating lightning bolt of pain lashing up from his bruised hips turns into a background sheet of white noise; the entire weft of his body is punched through with pleasure, needle-piercing up his nervous system like bursts of electricity, short-circuiting his already overloaded system until he can't see straight. 

The mirror doesn't matter now, his vision so blurred with the warring signals swamping his overwrought body and brain he couldn't see what he looks like if he wanted to. And he doesn't want to. He can't think enough to care. He's still making noises but they're animalistic, fervid, orgastic. He sobs and moans and tries to get his open drooling mouth off the carpet.

Andy slows his timing, but it's still metronome-neat, so controlled it's inhuman. Chucky hears himself babble god-knows-what every time Andy's cock slips free of his thighs; the re-entry is heavenly, the man's throbbing head catching and flicking over every slick inch of him, and he realizes after a few minutes that he's just chanting Andy's name, over, and over, and over. He's like a broken doll, caught on repeat. 

"That's right," says Andy, and he realizes he panted that last bit out loud. He can't _think_. His owner's mouth is against the shell of his ear, beard scraping with every syllable. " _My_ doll. _My_ birthday gift. And you're mine for good, til death and after, so I'll call you whatever I _like,_ button."

He comes so hard his vision goes dark, fireflies of light blinking on and off through it. His body rocks and shudders like a flower in a storm, beaten through by forces stronger than itself, and he's still coming even as his knees give way. God, it doesn't stop. Slowly, with lessening spurts, he descends to consciousness again. His cock is limp between his legs, and he hisses each time its oversensitive shaft is dragged against by Andy's thrusts. Holy _god,_ how is the man still going?

"You're insane," he gasps out, the first fully cognizant word out of his mouth in a while. Andy is breathing like a workhorse in his ear, tight and winded and hard. With more effort than he's even sure he can manage, he lifts his bound hands until the belt flicks against Andy's hair, getting the man's attention; his hands drop with exhausted relief when Andy meets his eyes in the mirror, and he grins wearily. "Here next," he says, and opens his wet mouth wide, tongue out and receptive.

Andy barks a curse, teeth clamping down so hard on his ear he squeals, and comes. He feels the man's tongue fret against his skin as Andy spasms through it, each heated pulse between his thighs matched with a soft snarl into his hair. He whines, but waits it out.

For a minute after the last twitches have finished, Andy doesn't move. At least he unlocks his teeth; Chucky tries to rub the sore ear against his shoulder, but can't quite manage with the awful arch his body's in, and after a moment Andy's tongue laves apologetically over it. He sighs, accepting the reparation.

Coming down from the overwhelming high, he finally notices the mirror again. "Oh, christ," he gripes, and turns his face away. If he didn't look like enough of a shitshow before, he's sure got the smears and tearmarks for it now. Andy hums soothingly into his hair, then eases up off him with a series of mutters and groans as things creak and protest. Chucky growls, letting his body just flop sideways like a dog worn out after a long jog. "Oh, shut it, what're _you_ complaining about, princess?"

"Drama queen," returns Andy, and goes to find them a warm washcloth, like he always does. He comes back and cleans Chucky up, like he always does, and undoes the bindings and rubs his bruises with affection, like he always does. Then he scoops Chucky up, pantsless and shivering, and bundles them both into bed -- not like he always does, but like he does on a really good night. These are Chucky's favorites.

They do not both drop off into sleep immediately, like they usually do. Chucky notices the silence in the air between them right away -- they spend a lot of time saying nothing, you start to hear how silence has different tones -- but buries his head in the blankets and tries to ignore it.

It sticks around. When he rolls over with a huff, fifteen minutes later, he finds Andy lying on his side, chin propped in one hand, watching him. He grumbles and sits up. "What?" he snaps, as if he doesn't know there's something.

Andy looks surprised he noticed. Maybe he wasn't always so good at reading a room, but the kid should cut him a break. He's learning, okay? "Nothing."

"Uh-huh." At first he thinks he'll wait it out, but within a minute he remembers why that doesn't ever work: Andy's a very tightly-woven defense of a man, and he himself is an incredibly impatient one. "So what's up?"

Andy raises an eyebrow. "Did you not hear me the first time?"

God, he's really got to do this. Sometimes he forgets he's the goddamn adult here. Still, if using his big boy words is what he needs to do to get some rest and sleep off what's quickly shaping up to be an absolute bitch of a sore back, he can do that.

"Sss," is all he says, because _sorry_ doesn't like coming out of his mouth, not in earnestness. It's sort of an allergy. He frowns at the way Andy's eyebrow bounces higher, and defiantly muscles through the hiss. "S-sorry it got...ugh." He makes a wavery hand motion, then splays his fingers out, gesturing between them. Andy watches the movement with understandable incomprehension, but Chucky just makes another futile hand-flick. It's pointless. It means nothing. He's babbling with his hands.

He takes another stab at it. "You know. All..." Christ. What was he going to say? _All heavy, when I reminded you how I totally ruined your mom's life? All shitty for a bit there, while we had to think about how I ruined yours, too? All weird while we dealt with the fact that this is completely abnormal, that this is strange energy between us, that there's miles of poisoned road in the rearview and neither of us has figured out who has the wheel?_

Andy isn't helping him, either, just staring at him with an expression too bland to be deciphered. He loses his temper, which he feels is acceptable, given the circumstances (how they just went through that heavy shit, and he's just about sweated and cried and come his fucking _soul_ out.) "Jesus, wouldja help me with this? Fuckin' tryin' here, for christ's sake." 

He sounds wrung out as hell. It's embarrassing when he babbles while exhausted; it always lets a little too much back home into his throat, the old South Side squeaking by worse than usual. The fact that it's a sign he's wiped makes him hate the sound of his own childhood accent in his ears, makes him scowl at the nasal _wud-ja_ and the _dis_ , the _heah_ and the _crysake_. Old, creaky windy city ghosts, their bony hands breaking ground to reach up and snag his throat when he's weakened. 

He grimaces, dragging a hand down his cheek, then growls into his palm when he notices. "Whatcha grinnin' at."

Andy doesn't stop. "Don't think I've heard a 'dis heah' since I was seven, damn."

"Aw, _fuck_ you, Andy Barclay." He really plays it up on that one, Aykroyd-style: _Eeyun-dee Bah-cleh_. He scrunches his nose at the way Andy's chin drops off his propping hand, so the man can start sniggering into the blanket. "Ah'm fuckin' _see-ruz,_ you fuckin' twat!"

Andy's face breaks free of the blanket. " _Twat_ ," he howls, mimicking Chucky's nasal drag. "Oh my god."

"Bite me, Barclay, see if I give a shit." Andy just laughs harder, cheeks reddening. He leers, hating how Andy's amusement makes his entire chest feel like it's too full of joy to breathe, a small sign of pleasure from the man enough to make the entire world seem pleasure-filled. God, he's got it bad. Like Tiffany's daytime movies level of bad. "I know you yoosta call it _peanut budder sammich_ same as anybody."

"I did," says Andy, getting his breathing under control. He props his chin in his hand again, still smiling. "And you were _Chauhn-kee_ when I was really worked up. Do you remember that?"

Well, so much for moving on. He tries not to grimace, but it doesn't quite become the easygoing sneer he'd hoped for. "Yeah...yeah, I do."

Andy blinks coolly at him. "And you made my name so high and sharp, like a pin-prick. I would mouth it to myself sometimes, the way you said it when you were talking too fast: _Ee-yn-dee_."

A chill is creeping up his extremities in slow waves. He knows the feeling well; it always comes when the joyride's about to end, when accusations are starting to trap him, judgment closing in. If he was a good man, he'd associate the sensation with guilt. He's not, so he associates it with the closest thing a bad man like him has: regret. "That so." He doesn't have the good humor left to make it _dat_.

"Yeah." Andy's rolling a pinch of the blanket between his fingers, slow repetition, but otherwise he's motionless. "And the way you said _shaddawp_." He releases the blanket, reaching out to trail a finger along Chucky's bare calf. " _Fawwk you_."

The cold is ebbing gently up to his wrists. He flexes his fingers, trying to work feeling back into them. He can remember it too easily: the little shape huddled next to him in bed, still save for the silent movement of his mouth. He'd been too frustrated at the time to snap at the boy to stop being freaky, busy with his own sulking in the dark. He'd been so angry then, so personally injured by fate. He'd wanted to hurt the world.

"Nothin' good, sounds like," is all he can muster. 

The corner of Andy's mouth lifts, his nail tracing lazily back down Chucky's leg. "Nothin' much you said was good."

"Christ, kid," he blurts, suddenly swamped with fear. Scared that they're going to get nasty again, when he doesn't particularly feel like being nasty right now. Scared that they're doomed to turn nasty every time, because he doomed them to. Scared that the past is going to keep rearing its dead head, sightless eyes locked on him, unassailable hands dragging him back no matter how far ahead he travels. Scared that this chill is going to keep spreading like it always does, creeping up his throat and down his chest until he's frozen to the bone, until nothing matters because he's incontrovertibly _wrong,_ the judgment is manifest, and his body will stagger on without feeling or want until someone puts it -- briefly -- in the ground yet again, perhaps where such an insensate thing as him belongs for good. "Say something nice."

"What do you want me to say?" Andy sounds earnestly curious. Chucky grabs the trailing hand with both of his own, locking his icy fingers around the man's warm skin as if heat could transfer enough to force his chilling regret to abate.

"Something -- say something _nice_. Fuck, I don't know. Say something good, please." 

"I don't know what you mean."

"I just -- I'm _trying_ \-- god, say something, something nice, maybe I'll practice it. You don't know."

"Practice it?" He flexes his hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of Chucky's. "You're freezing."

"You don't know, I could -- I could learn something. I might be repeatin' stuff you say too." He doesn't know what he's saying. He's babbling, trying to talk his way out of things the way he always does, his mouth the last resort against the inevitable recompense of his bad choices. "Isn't there _anything_ good?" 

"You're still here."

"Fuck," he says, shocked it comes out like that: a sob. " _Fuck_."

"Chucky," says Andy, with his warm voice, with his bland little years-mellowed accent, with the rounded way his vowels taper off so mildly. "My friend 'til the end."

"Andy," he gasp-squeaks, with his hard voice, with his ugly nasal age-sharpened accent, with the impatient way his vowels fight for dominance. "Fuck you."

Andy laughs, toasty-warm, and reaches over to haul him close. He lets himself be pulled down. He's not crying, he's just got something in his eyes, probably his fucked-up mascara or some shit, but Andy lets him hide his face in the man's shirt as if he is. Andy rubs his back, and traces lines between the freckles on his shoulders, and lets him rinse the irritants out. 


	3. Chapter 3

The neon numbers on the clock say 1:08 by the time he's done flushing the dust from his eyes. At some point Andy had scrounged in the nightstand for a blunt, and now they pass it back and forth slowly, sharing the smoke and silence. He's the one that breaks the peace. Of course. "I didn't know you had a thing for that." Andy makes a questioning noise, waving for him to pass back; he doesn't oblige, wanting a second selfish hit, and gestures with it towards his face. "The paint."

"I don't know if I do."

He pauses, joint to mouth, chuckling. "Oh, kid, you do. Your eyes went damn near black -- for a minute there I thought I'd fucked something up, thought you were fuckin' _pissed_."

"Maybe." 

"Seriously. Look it up. New me-time material for ya." He passes the blunt back. "Guys in makeup, or whatever. Drag? Jesus, I dunno, I'm too fuckin' old and ugly for this shit."

Andy frowns, then laughs gently, not seeming rushed as he takes an easy inhale. "I really don't need to. I got it all here."

He could leave it at that. Kid's brushed it off, maybe embarrassed now that the confidence of a raging boner is gone, maybe uncomfortable with this new discovery. A better man would leave it be. The problem is, he's on the scent, now, he can't ignore the nasty little pin-pricks of insecurity; he has to elbow at Andy crudely, shooting his voice down rough and prodding. "C'mon, you gotta be curious. YouPorn that shit, I won't be offended."

Another chuckle. "I'm good."

"Jesus, just take a peek. You ain't winnin' any sainthoods, Andy Barclay, might as well enjoy the ride down." 

"That's not what got me," says Andy, quietly.

"No?" He squints, trying to parse it out, then leers. "Oh, you perv. Multiple ladies? Or, jesus, lesbos? I dunno exactly how many hoops you're jumpin' through with that, but I guess anyone can appreciate a cute couple with great tits --"

"It was what they were doing."

"The makeup or the pushin'? Cause one's a career and one's a dominatrix, which I hear is a career out in Hollywood anyway, though that never sounded real to me. I mean, can you imagine gettin' paid for that? And I thought _my_ job was doing what you love."

"Touching you up." He puts his free hand on Chucky's thigh, looking up at him. Maybe it's the touch that does it; he falters, shot through with a far more powerful streak of insecurity. The stab makes his defenses double up, and this time his voice is mean, jagged as a scar. He gestures to his face in a flippant circle.

"Yeah? Little blush and color do something for all this? Kinda like puttin' a crucifix on a whore, huh? Misses the root of the problem."

"No, just the lipstick. It made your lips look good."

He is getting thrown all the fuck over the place. He feels unexpectedly injured, but confused as to where the blow landed, unable to hear a compliment but looking for the sting. "Jesus, kid, if you liked red lips I've had 'em plenty bloody in the past!"

"I didn't know it was a thing." Andy's eyes dip to his mouth, darkening. "But it looked good on you, and I liked it. And that's what I liked, that I liked it."

"Kid, you are talkin' to a psycho but what the sweet fuckin' hell are you on --"

"It was like they were prepping you for me." That broad hand starts sliding along his thigh, fingernails tracing an imaginary inseam, until it stops just short of his shirt hem. Chucky's heart must have gotten lost, because it's floundering clumsily around all the way up in his throat. "Like you were getting all primped up, and I was supposed to come in and take you. My sweet doll, all wrapped up nice for me, like a gift."

Forget floundering, it's hammering at his jugular, it's so swollen and throbbing there he can barely talk. "What are you even talkin' about," he manages hoarsely. "Fuckin' idiot. What the fuck."

"I felt it right down to my toes like a goddamn thunderbolt." He doesn't move much, just a smooth slide from elbows up to hands and knees, but it's enough to give him height, and mass, and suddenly he's looming, suddenly he's a wall in front of Chucky, suddenly he's an oncoming wave and Chucky has never been good at swimming. He can't even pull in a deep breath to prepare; it whistles in through his throat in a humiliating whine as Andy leans in, stubble grazing his jaw, chapped lips rough against his ear. "I don't think you fucking get exactly how much this was a _thing_. I saw you propped up on the counter, pinned in place and touched up all over your talented little mouth, all dolled up and ready to play with, a gift from my dear friends _just for me_ , and it hit so hard my _balls_ _hurt_."

His head dips, teeth grazing the tense line of Chucky's neck, and the doll grabs a fistful of his shirt to -- what? To push him away? To pull him closer? He's not sure. He ends up just clutching the flannel helplessly, breath whistling out between his clenched teeth in a pained whine. Godammit, this boy is going to kill him. _Chucky, born in sin, died from same,_ they're going to have to put on his latest gravestone. _His lover was just too damn aggressive and hot and he wasn't ready for it._

Andy's hand lifts to trace Chucky's jawline, to trail through his hair. To clutch the whole of Chucky's skull, broad fingers almost wide enough to encompass it, and squeeze so hard the doll's mouth drops in a soft wail. Andy's hot breath spills the words between his parted lips. "You want me to get some new material, huh? I can't find that on the internet. You wanna sit back on the table and let Jeevie pick you out the right blush again, one that makes those blue eyes just pop when they look up at me between my legs? Perfect pink lipgloss to make me think about all the paces I'm gonna put that dirty little mouth through?"

He's panting like a dog. It's not fair -- he's old and he just went a marathon and there's no way he can be hard again but he _is_ , he's rail-hard, his soft young body is putty in Andy's hands and his broken old brain is one big sloshing soup of lust and need and willingness. Willingness to do anything, anything at all, for Andy to keep looking at him with such gut-deep lust.

"Easy," coos Andy, and for some reason the way he smirks even as he comforts just makes Chucky's fever shoot higher in defiance. Little hums of energy shoot all the way down to his fingers and toes. When Andy leers down at him like this, hungry and possessive and confident and comfortable, it's like every cell in his body just gives up. Something deep inside him hauls on the lever marked 'submit'. It's like there's a switch on his back that Andy can simply flip, easy, whenever he wants something pliable to play with. It's disgusting. It's dangerous. It's infuriating. For fuck's sake, though, it makes him so fucking _hard_.

He can't say it, breath caught too tight in his gasping throat, but his body throbs with it: he'd let them mark him up again, he'd do any of it in a heartbeat, if it would make Andy look at him like this. _Just keep looking at me like I'm desirable,_ bleeds out of his weeping breaths, shakes out of his open body. _Just keep wanting me. I don't care how._

"You look like you wanna eat me," is what manages to wheeze out of his stupid proud mouth. It doesn't say any of the embarrassing things he desperately needs to say, like _don't stop_ and _I'll do anything_ and _don't stop looking like I'm interesting, like I could really be something you'd like tomorrow, next week, a year from now, like you might like something about me ten years from now, if you give me this and then take it away I might die, I might wither up and die!_

Yet somehow, when he manages to make contact with Andy's dark eyes, he feels like some of it got across. The dangerous grip on his head loosens a little, shifting, cradling the base of his skull right against the heel of Andy's hand. Cupping, like he's something delicate. Like Andy thinks he's valuable.

"I think it's gonna be real fun to learn all about this being one of my things," murmurs Andy to him, soft as a lover, hot as a brand. Chucky's stomach is corkscrewed up so hard with desire, it feels like his body is going to twist itself in half. "I hope you don't mind."

"Yeah," he grits out, and it's so strangled it sounds pained.

"I just want to...I wanna see new looks on you. I want pictures so I can look at them when I'm lonely. I want to see how cute you look dolled up for me. I want to come home from work and find you laid out like dessert."

He's breathing so hard he feels lightheaded. He's watching Andy like the man might kill him, or save him, and honestly it feels a little like both.

"My doll," considers Andy, and finally his other hand moves to do the work, and even as it's still closing its grasp around Chucky's cock he's already going tense and coming, body snapped so taut with the sudden, powerful release his head jerks in Andy's hold. His boy, his owner, his Andy crowds close over him as he heaves through his orgasm, completely sedate except for his greedy dark gaze and the lust running sharp through his soothing sounds. "Shhh, easy, easy, there. There you go. There you go." Chucky is half-curled and cramped in his hands, face crumpled so hard in release it almost looks like pain, breath still whimpering and whining. "There you go. C'mon, just for me."

His urging is met with only the flagging twitches of a twice-wrung body, but Chucky's eyelids fly open, his red face even redder with embarrassment and fluttering relief at the words, his chest bucking with gasps like a third orgasm. "Cutest doll in the world and it's all mine," says Andy, and Chucky breaks, squawking, hands flying to cover his face, body open and shuddering in submission, finally ready to take anything.

" _Andy,_ " he gasps, shivering, short legs half-retracting from the muscle tension, forcing them back out to length so the whole of his body is spread open in Andy's lap, open like a gutted deer, open like a wound, open like a starving mouth. Nothing as sexy as a welcoming woman could be, soft and fluttering and wet. He's just a ragged knife-wound hungry for more, a wretched sprawl of thick limbs and scar-tautened skin, a gaping cut that isn't done with the blade that sawed it open. But _god,_ he'll do anything to make it good for Andy, he'll do _anything_ to take him in as nicely as a cunt, he'll gut himself until his insides froth out and Andy can just thrust into the dying, pulsing heat of him, if that's what the man wants. It's terrifying, the totality with which he'll open himself to his core for this man. It's _complete_.

It has to be, because an inch less than total and he wouldn't be able to let the sweet submission flow through his voice, wouldn't be able to let his ugly small hand reach up to comb through Andy's hair. Wouldn't be able to smile willingly at him, letting the vulnerable words come tumbling out. "Fuck, Andy, please use me. I'm here, please, fuck me up or fill me up or _choke_ me, baby, fuckin' _stuff_ me with it." His hands are shaking. He manages to get them both up into Andy's hair anyway, trembling as they frame the shocked, dark face staring down at him. "I'm durable. They sketched out all the right dimensions on me. Pin me down and fuck me 'til I rip in two, we can stitch me up and do it again. I was fuckin' _made_ for you."

Between his trembling hands, Andy is shaking, too, but it's not fatigue: the twitches are jarring and short, like a dog spasming under a tightly-held collar. His eyes are blown out so wide Chucky feels like he's looking into a shark's eyes, total darkness, total predation. If there was an ounce of energy left in him he could save himself, but the crack went too deep and the night has been too long. He bares his soft underbelly without a single grasp for survival. He tucks himself up into the soft curve of Andy's throat, almost snuggling, and tilts his head to one side to bare his thick neck.

"All the way in," he whispers, scarred lips almost touching Andy's chin. "Look, I'm just the right shape to fit in your lap. I bet inside I'm all sorts of good shapes for you, too. I bet you could fuck me like a sleeve and I'd keep you warm long as you want, I bet you could just hug me like a pillow and I'd fit so _nice_ around you, twitchin' and gasping and rollin' my hips. I bet you could just smoke and drink and let me shudder on you for _hours_."

"Chucky, _christ,_ " chokes Andy, and now he's the one sounding strangled. He's turning his head away a little, and an observer could be forgiven for thinking it shyness. This close, cheek to cheek, Chucky can hear the way his breath is whistling so greedily in his throat he's almost struggling to inhale. "Fuck, don't -- don't do this to me."

"Do me," he returns, immediate. A bark of a laugh huffs out of Andy like he expected the lewd riposte. "Do me, do me, do me." It's sing-song, the way he pleads it so nicely against Andy's skin. His hand lifts to cup Andy's other ear, keeping the man from pulling any further away, keeping him close enough to whisper filth right into his jaw. "Oh, baby boy, lay down and do me. Make me bounce on you like a coked-up whore, I'll take it if my body breaks --"

"Christ!" snaps Andy, flipping them, slamming him down so hard his back leaves the bed for a moment on the rebound. Andy is boxed over him but on his elbows and knees, head lolling down like a weary dog, messy hair the only thing Chucky can see. He doesn't need to see. He can hear the dripping hunger in his boy's strained throat. "Don't fucking do this, you fucking nut, don't you know when to stop?"

Despite his shock at the sudden movement, a peal of crazy giggles escapes him, cutting through the weight of gathered lust like a sharp knife. Even Andy's hunched shoulders loosen a little. "Who d'you think you're talkin' to, kid? You ever known me t'be _moderate?_ "

"I know you've got a filthy mouth and you act like you were raised in a bar," snaps Andy, finally giving him eye contact again. He looks amused despite himself. 

"South side blueblood, whatja expect," he says, intentionally letting the old accent smear thicker, knowing how sleazy it comes off. "Raised in the fuckin' tenants, bar would've been better." But it's faltering, even then, because the moment has passed and now he has to deal with the fallout. It was easy to let the words go when he was riding the endorphins, when his center was so clearly open. Every second on the clock means the vulnerability has time to burrow again, walls starting to pull in, and now he has to think of the reality of the situation: he's not a sexy sidewalk slut Andy picked up, great tits and the skills to match, but a ragged old piece of merchandise. X-rated filth hits different coming from a pretty girl's mouth -- coming from an old bastard, and thrown around as hard as he's been doing, it must sound nothing short of disgusting.

"You're a danger to yourself and everyone around you," murmurs Andy, sinking lower, getting comfortable; his hips rest on the mattress, his belly pressed down between Chucky's still lazily spread legs. It's rare they lie face to face like this. It feels intimate, but gentle. 

Chucky smiles through his bemusement and growing self-disgust. "That's what the system back home said, too."

Andy smiles back at him, and there's teeth. "And you never learned."

"Nah. Be boring that way." He's watching cautiously. The kid is throwing mixed signals: slow movements and close contact, irked smile and warm chest pressed near. Chucky can't figure out if Andy is annoyed he killed the mood before he got his cock in a second time, or if he's planning something. "Kid, whatever, but I didn't mean to hit the brakes. You got me so good I cross-wired for a second there. Let's keep it going, huh?" He tries to drag his toes up Andy's side, but he's pinned down so well they just barely brush the larger man's hip uselessly. Andy chuckles softly.

"Easy there. Let's just breathe."

"Kid?"

"I said easy," says Andy, reaching up to brush hair away from his forehead. "Just give it a minute, you maniac."

"Aww, baby." Awareness of his looks notwithstanding, he can't stop himself; he never could, frankly, and come to think of it that's probably what set him on the path to Hell from the start. Despite his own grumbling humiliation he sticks his tongue out, painfully aware of the way the stitches on it catch briefly on his teeth, and wiggles it salaciously. "Goin' too fast for ya?"

" _Stop,_ " snarls Andy, broad hands clawing into the sides of his head and pinning him down against the bed. 

His eyes fly wide, breath shortened in shock. He watches as Andy bows his head, and for a moment they stay that way, Andy's fingers indenting hard against his temples, Andy's breathing sounding loud in the quiet. Then his eyes narrow as Andy drops his forehead against Chucky's chest, and the man starts to laugh.

"You're gonna be the death of me," groans Andy, the puffs of his laughter itching through the shirt on Chucky's high-alert skin. 

He growls in confusion. "I'm tryin' _not_ to, if you've noticed! And you better have, cause it sure ain't a fuckin' cakewalk!"

"Like hell you have." Andy lifts his head just enough to be able to rest his chin on Chucky's chest. His lidded eyes gleam with amusement, and this close Chucky can make out the moonless-dark depths of desire in them. Those eyes are blown out so wide with hunger, his pulse skips a beat. Andy looks like he's contemplating swallowing him whole. "I'm trying to treat you right, and you've got me five seconds from _breaking_ you."

He has to swallow, screwing up his courage, to say it; they're too far past the release now, all his walls comfortably back in place. He squeezes his toes and takes a deep breath. "I meant it all, y'know. You can do anything with me. I was figurin' on another round with the face you were wearing --"

"Chucky, I _can't_."

He tries, Damballa help him he _tries,_ but he's a weak man with no more filter than a pack of classic Camels. It's just not possible to keep his stupid mouth shut. "What, you hittin' middle age already?"

"I can't with you." When he chuckles, Chucky feels the deep bell-tone of it in his thighs, reverberating from where they're pressed up against his chest. If he wasn't wrung so dry his entire body felt parched, he'd be worried about getting hard from that alone. Andy is just so _big_. "No self-preservation, you psycho." He reaches up and ruffles Chucky's hair, which is so damn out of line. Chucky's at least twenty years his senior.

"Hey!" He goes to swat the fingers out of his hair; Andy's broad hand snatches his own, clutching it hard, and pins it to the bed. He catches his breath at the absolutely deadly look in the man's gaze.

"You've got no idea how close I was to snapping you in half," says Andy, and he says it so quiet, so calm, so honest, Chucky feels his gut nearly drop through his feet as instinct finally kicks in. Took it long enough. 

It doesn't apologize. It doesn't say _sorry I'm late, couldn't stop you from running your mouth off._

It says _run_.

Which is utterly _thrilling_.

Andy keeps the doll's hand squeezed tight -- three of his big fingers are enough -- but stretches out his pointer finger to trace down Chucky's temple. "Have you got any idea... _any_ idea what it does to me when you start talking like that?"

He tries to chuckle. It comes out a triggery breath, so then he tries to bulk it up with curses. "What, it get your little dick hard when I talk trashy? You're so fuckin' easy, Andy Barclay."

"No, _you're_ easy." The sharp thrust of his snarl, combined with the way his free hand snaps around Chucky's upper arm, shoots another bolt of instinct right through the doll's guts. _Run run RUN_. "So wiped you can barely keep your eyes open; you think you could fight me like this?"

He's shivering. He has no idea why but he's shivering in the man's hands, pinned under his stare, unable to look away. "I -- I was _offering,_ you dumb bitch --"

"And I don't know if you'd want me to fucking _take_ it, when you wind me up so hard!"

"What?" he gasps, too shaken to play cool. Andy's voice is a rumble in his chest, as tangible against his thighs as it is in his ears.

"You get me going so bad, it's like you've finally won," says Andy. 

"... _what?_ "

His finger brushes the shell of Chucky's ear, then the soft skin behind it, the weak point where the right kind of blow can drop you, one hit, stone dead. "I feel _possessed_. I want to get so deep into you you'll never get me out. I want to fuck you until you can _taste_ it coming up the back of your _throat_. I want to fucking ruin you until I'm spilling out your _seams_."

He's so fraught with fearful instinct he feels like he's going to shake apart. He's so aroused he feels like he's going to faint. He's shivering so hard it makes his voice waver. "I w-want you to."

"And I want to be in control every time I do." Andy huffs, frowning. "But you just keep pushing, using that dirty damn mouth." Without warning he dips his head, pressing a kiss to Chucky's lips, and it's bruising. His tongue snarls into Chucky's mouth with too much force to even consider being denied; the doll's body tenses but his lips fall open, desperate for him, body eager to receive even with the total exhaustion running through it. Andy kisses him until he's almost hurting for air, then bites his lip so hard on the retreat he squeaks in shock. "I wanna know what I'm gonna do to you, button. And when you look like this, and talk like that, I almost don't _know_ what I'm gonna do to you. You just love playing with fire."

"Like this?" he pants, eyebrows dropping despite his fear. "Y'mean the naked, or the lipstick, huh?"

"Oh, button."

"I'm serious, Andy --" But then he gasps, letting his head drop back, as Andy's heated lips kiss down his neck and collarbone. He says something, but it's lost to a slur of exhaustion and distraction, and Andy only hums in amusement, kissing down the middle of his chest, taking a lazy route across the soft swell of his belly to his left hipbone. He whines, relieved when Andy releases his hands so he can drag one across his face in embarrassment. "Kid..."

"Like _this,_ " says Andy, and nips at the top of his thigh. He squeals, then bites the heel of his own hand, embarrassed. Andy laughs, licks a long stripe up along his thigh, and then kisses the base of his lax cock. 

He growls in humiliation, fisting his fingers into Andy's hair despite his former fear. "Jee-zuz, you bastard, I _can't_. I'm _old._ Gimme a few hours, for chrissake. Like _what?_ "

Finally Andy lifts his eyes. His grin is warm, fond, and lethally hungry. "Like _this_. Letting me touch you. Letting me see your body. Sweet thighs open for me. Such a cute cock for me to kiss." 

He squawks, utterly appalled, then tries to cover his own face with both hands when Andy punctuates it with another kiss to his base. "Shuddup, I don't --"

"So soft for me. I wanna fold you up in my lap and fuck you 'til you can't see straight, when I see your thighs." His hands drag down the doll's legs, slipping to cup behind his knees; despite the humiliated growls happening above, he meets little resistance as he pushes them up, stretching Chucky's short legs until the doll's almost bent in half. He runs his palms up and down the scarred skin. "Did you know when you're all curled up in my arms, it's the cutest thing I've ever seen?"

"I hate you," snarls Chucky, completely at a loss, helpless in his defensiveness to do anything but snap insults into his own palms. "Don't make fuckin' _fun,_ I give you a good time and you fuckin' pull this shit?"

"I have wet dreams like I'm a goddamn teenager." He strokes his thumbs up and down the backs of Chucky's thighs, massaging a little further each time, working gently up the swell of his ass. "I see a peek when you bend over in one of my shirts and I go fucking _stupid_. You know what I mean?"

He does. There was a time -- a much younger time, when a lot more hormones were rushing through his much younger body -- where Tiffany could literally make his heart stop by bending over just so. She was a master of it, those clingy dress hems inching up and up her perfect long legs until they stopped, as if by magic, just an inch low enough. She could make him tunnel-vision, sight literally closing in, pulse throbbing in his dumb head, brain turned to mush. It was like there wasn't room in his empty wooden skull for anything but lust.

But that was then, and he was a young hormone-overwhelmed man, and she was a vision in velvet skirts and porcelain skin, and her perfect dark eyelashes fluttered like she was a movie star. Now he's a pudgy, off-kilter crafts project, a mismatched pile of parts mushed together and then stuffed with everything a working body demands: blood and fat, off-set eyes and off-set bones. The rough lines that mark out countries on his flesh break him into a buffet of ugly parts. It's not just unreasonable for Andy to see him with any appeal; it's unnatural. It's _unfair_. The man's a looker, if you're into men -- god knows Chucky didn't think he was, but as far as his limited experience goes, Andy's. Well. 

Andy's _it_. Warm brown eyes over a strikingly set, defiant mouth, one that flicks easily between an ice-cold smile or starving teeth. Softened lines of his skin hiding the powerful muscle of survivalist strength, body a whip ready to lash out hunter-fast, his reflexes gut-churning in their swiftness. Baby-sweet blush that touches him when he goes tender, dark lashes that hood his eyes when he glances down in warmth. Andy's a _treat_. 

Chucky's...not.

"I don't get you," he whispers, into his palms. "I don't get you."

He feels Andy's laugh puff over his skin. "You don't need to get me, baby. Not when you _take_ me so well."

His thighs squeeze together, shaking, when Andy's thumb brushes up between his ass cheeks. "Offer's still on the table," he gasps. He feels Andy's thumb circle his entrance thoughtfully. It takes effort with his weariness, but he manages to hook his free leg around Andy's hip, drawing his touch in to prod at the twitching center. "C'mon."

Andy's hand pulls away. Chucky doesn't know why it makes him whimper in unhappiness; he's tired, and another round of testing the bedsprings feels like it might break him. He whimpers nonetheless. "Andy, you bitch, I'm not fucking joking, I want you to --"

"This is why I gotta take care of you," says Andy, scooping arms up behind him again. The man holds him there, heels propped up against Andy's shoulders, folded neatly in half against his chest, and kisses his forehead. "You use up all your energy taking care of me."

"I wanna take care of you," he whispers, palms flat against Andy's collarbone, weary head bent. "I wanna be so good for you, baby boy."

"You _are_. But you can't fucking push me like that, not when you're -- fuck, you crazy bastard, you get me fucking _crazy_."

"I don't care," he tells Andy's neck. "You can mess me up. I love it. I want you to."

"I _want_ to. I But when you look so fucking _good_ , and you're talking so much, and it makes me -- christ -- you set me on fucking _fire,_ doll, you make me so hard my _vision_ goes wavery..."

"I don't get it!" His fists slam against Andy's collarbone before he even realizes he'd raised them. He looks up into the man's startled face, feeling the tension in his own squinting eyes but not understanding what it means until the first hot trickle runs down his face. "I'm a fucking _mess!_ I'm disgusting! I look like _shit,_ Andy! I'm just tryin' to set the _mood_ a little, help get it up, and you go and snap like that and then _you_ get pissed?! You're fuckin' making fun of _me_ and _you_ get mean?"

"Making fun," says Andy, quietly.

"I _know_ I'm a horror, okay? I'm not _blind!_ " He despises the tears, but the angry dash of his hands doesn't make them stop. He blinks furiously through them, irrationally incensed when they trap in his clumped lashes. Oh, great, thanks, he needed that reminder: thanks to early mornings post-spree with Tiffany, he knows what smudged makeup looks like, and it takes a very good face to make _that_ look work. God, he probably looks like a crack whore. 

He can't even rub at his eyes now, knowing how that will just keep smearing the raccoon circles around, so the tears gather in his lashes, welling up slow and then just rivuleting down. Andy's gaze follows the tracks, transfixed. Chucky forces a shaky inhale. "I'm just tryin' to help," he says, and his voice only cracks a little. "I'm not a total ass. I _know_ you're fuckin' a pig. If it just makes it worse you shoulda just _said_ so, said a patchwork quilt talkin' dirty turned your stomach -- "

"Stop," says Andy, and he stops. Not because he wants to hear whatever excuse Andy's about to give him, but because he's too tired to keep running his mouth. His brain is too strung out on post-endorphins crash and confusion and self-disgust to function; it's just chuffing away on fumes, now, spluttering aimlessly. Even his endless blabber runs dry when he's this close to collapse.

Andy shifts him gently, helping him tuck his legs down and around Andy's waist, warm arms cradling him close. "I think...we crossed a few wires somewhere."

He grunts. If this goes on much longer, he might just pass out right here and let Andy be pissed about it. Lord knows he's dealt with Tiffany's fury about being dropped for sleep; he'll deal with Andy too. That'll be Tomorrow-Chucky's problem.

A kiss presses to his half-ruined eye, and he freezes. 

"You're a disaster," says Andy, against his scarred eyelid, where the ruined skin is so thick he almost can't feel the contact. "You're a fucked-up little asshole, and holding you in my arms feels like holding a toy. Sometimes...you don't feel real."

"Yeah," he breathes, trembling, miserable. It's one thing to snarl it at himself in the mirror, to scream it at himself in his own hate-filled head. It's another thing to hear it in his boy's voice. He deserves it, though, god knows it's the least he deserves, so he'll take it. Lwa help him, he'll take anything this man gives him, if only because it means he's got Andy's attention.

Andy's lips cross over to his other eyebrow, kissing along to his temple, following the gaping ladder-stitch up where Tiffany had to pull the hardest to stretch the skin back over his scratched metal skull. "You're so attractive I think about fucking you over the back of the couch at _least_ once a day," says Andy.

His heart stammers wrong for a beat. He stares up.

"You're so cute in my t-shirt, I want to take pictures so I can look at them while I'm at work," says Andy.

The tears are coming harder again, and he doesn't know _why_. He forgets his own rule and scrubs a hand over them, but it doesn't help. They keep coming.

"You're so sexy when you're lying in bed in the morning, and the sunlight's coming through the blinds," says Andy. "Do you know how hard it hits me when I look over and there's shadow lines just curving up over your round little ass? I have to clutch the sheets so I don't just reach over and grab it."

"Stop," he says, though what he means is _if you stop now I might kill you, and then I'll have to kill me too_. "You don't hafta, kid, I'm a goddamn adult."

"Your thighs," says Andy. "I get dry mouth."

"I'm fucking _sixty_ ," he says, stronger, managing mostly because he can feel the redness creeping up his neck and the tips of his ears. "Almost _seventy_."

"Your toes curl up and your knees pull up and you make those cute little gasps and I want to just eat you alive," says Andy.

"Stop!"

"Your button nose gets pink when you're embarrassed and I just want to kiss every freckle -- ow!" says Andy, grinning despite his slap. "You start getting feisty with me and I swear to god sometimes I can barely hear what you're saying, my pulse gets so loud. All I can think about is how _good_ you'll look, with that sleazy mouth around my dick."

"Andy Asshat Barclay, I am going to kill you," he says, holding up a shaky, scolding finger in the man's face. But he's smiling, for some inconceivable reason -- surely he doesn't _believe_ this, surely he's not falling for this high school sweet-talk -- and he can't _stop_ smiling. Andy kisses his fingertip, and he gives what he hopes comes across as a completely mean squeak.

"You wear slippers and my shirt and nothing else in the kitchen in the morning, and it's so fucking cute I have to get my shit together before I come in for coffee."

This isn't getting to him. He can't be believing this. He knows what he looks like.

"Your hair gets tucked up and I just want to kiss the back of your neck, every part of you is so soft and squeezable and kissable," Andy says, merciless, and Chucky snaps.

"I'm sorry," he wheezes, totally unsure why he can't breathe right. Oh, he's crying again. That's why. "I'm sorry I'm so messed up. I wanna be good for you, Andy, you're my _boy_."

"There you are," says Andy, softly, like _he's_ the one that's been patient with _Chucky_ all this time. Abruptly his grip vanishes. Chucky doesn't have a second to breathe before he's caught up in Andy's arms, the man abruptly rolling them again, cradling them together until he's laid back and Chucky's straddling him. He keeps his arms around Chucky's hips, helping with balance as the doll's hands fumble clumsily at his chest, trying to find purchase. Finally his open palms rest against Andy's stomach and he can prop himself up. It takes a lot from his shaky arms; he's been through a lot tonight.

Soothingly, Andy pets his thighs, his soft sides, murmuring praise that earns him an exhausted, proud smile. "There we go. There's my sweet thing." He keeps petting him, sweet-talking him, supporting him, as he works a few slow, gentle rolls of his hips until Chucky can get his feet planted right. He keeps petting as Chucky finds the angle he needs to start rocking his own hips, cock relaxed against Andy's belly, soft ass warm against the desperately hard line of Andy's cock. 

He's weak but working, panting with exhaustion. He's worried about his legs giving out, but he's propped up with Andy's hands, held in place with Andy's smile, urged on by Andy's voice: "There you go. Such a good job. Such a beautiful doll."

How he manages to make Andy come is a miracle. It has to be the line of arousal the poor man has been patiently riding for the past half hour. He can barely stay upright and rocking as he feels Andy twitch and shudder beneath him; he's grateful for the hands clamping hard on his hips, because he can thrust against them, pinned down enough he can focus his flagging energy on working his boy through his orgasm. Andy gasps, sucking in a breath in what is surely a beautiful way, but he can't even lift his head to peek through his straggling hair and see; he just focuses on moving, rhythmic, and when Andy clutches even harder and bucks beneath him in a sudden frenzy, he gasps in sheer relief that they're done.

Andy groans, stilling, and slowly unclamps his hands. He grabs Chucky's shoulders, then, and Chucky is too tired to even be awed by his awareness, that he should notice his doll was one breath away from collapse. Andy helps him ease down, sprawling onto the man's sweaty chest, and as they lie there together listening to Andy's breathing recover he is completely hollow. Every inch of him is emptied out, a vessel without an ounce of strength, an engine drained completely. He doesn't have the power to fight or to defend. He can't even lift his head. He just breathes, and listens to Andy breathe.

Andy tells him sweet things, and Chucky is too wrung out, too completely done, to make him stop. He says things about Chucky's nose, and his cheeks, and his hundred freckles. He praises his body, he strokes his back, he brushes long fingers over the curve of his ass. And Chucky is too defeated to do anything but let the blows come, every loving thing arrowing in, piercing him deep inside.

That's the danger, at the end of it all: that he'll feel this. That he'll be defeated so soundly things will slip past his defenses like thieves into a broken city. He can't let himself feel these things because they're good, too good, so good he's going to need them like air. The need is the danger, because it brings out the monster in him. Every time something hits him deep this way, he tries to keep it, and then it runs away. And then he has to hunt it down.

He tells Andy this.

Andy smiles at him, fearless. "You're mine. My mom gave you to me, for my birthday. And that means you're mine forever."

These good things, they're the dangerous things. But they're also the only things that make his chest swell like this, making him feel soft inside, making him feel eager for tomorrow. He tells Andy this, too.

Andy kisses him on the crown of his head. "Well, tough shit. We're stuck in this whether you like it or not."

"I hate it," he informs the man. "Get me some water. Got fuckin' cottonmouth and I can't move an inch."

Andy rolls them both, laying him down, and kisses his forehead. "You're a brat."

"Yeah, yeah, now get me water."

"Mm." Another kiss, and then the bed shifts with Andy's weight leaving, and the next thing he knows the morning sun is coming through the blinds that Andy just flicked open. "Jesus!" He rolls over -- or tries to. His body is one giant map of aches and soreness. "Oh, _jesus_."

Andy laughs by the window. He shades his eyes, scowling at the large shadow-thing that must be his partner's silhouette. "Feeling it, huh?"

"Fuck you, kid, you owe me a back massage." He stretches carefully, then pleasurably, toes spread, thighs open, and sighs the deep sigh he associates with morning afterglow. "Huh, maybe I owe _you_ one."

"We can trade." Andy comes over, sitting on the side of the bed. "How's your wrists?"

"Huh? Oh." He examines them, and the inch-wide bruises laced around either one. Then he looks up and grins. "Lookin' nice, thank you."

Andy blows out an amused huff, reaching over to scrub his hair. "You're shameless."

"Yeah, and what a shame." The hand in his hair trails down to cup his chin, lifting it. He frowns automatically at Andy's close inspection. "Don't tell me, I look like a raccoon. Ah, shit, and we ain't got makeup remover. Fuck me standing."

"I dunno," says Andy, and rubs a thumb over his bottom lip. "I think if you don't have breakfast you'll pass out again."

There's no way the man is looking at what _must_ be a warzone on his face and is thinking what he somehow _is_ thinking. It's madness. ' _The whole damn relationship is madness,_ ' he thinks, ' _but par for the course, I guess._ ' He parts his surely catastrophic pink lips.

The flat of Andy's thumb presses smoothly in, dry against his tongue. He works on that, satisfied to be suckling gently, until he happens to glance up and see the besotted look on his boy's face. He snaps his teeth down on Andy's thumb and cackles.

Andy frowns, withdrawing his hand, then yanking it back when Chucky tries to close the gap with a real bite. He smiles toothily, sitting up and starting to wrangle his hair back under control. "Fool you once, Andy Barclay, shame on you...and you're a damn fool."

"Sure fucking am," says Andy, still glaring at him. He stands, heading for the door, but pauses halfway through. "...eggs sound good?"

"And breakfast after?" He puts a hand over his heart, fluttering his lashes. "Well, I caught a gentleman last night, and no mistake."

"Eggs," confirms Andy, exiting, his right hand -- and its accompanying obscene gesture -- the last thing to vanish. Chucky giggles to himself, getting back to his hair. It's going to take some pretty dedicated finger combing to deal with the amount of post-good-time ruffle he's got going on.

' _Not post good time,_ ' he decides. ' _Good times ongoing. Good times to continue until further notice._ '

"Coffee ain't happening unless you get your ass out here," hollers Andy from the kitchen. He grins. Kid's learning all sorts of good behavior from him.

His body protests all the way off the bed and down the hall, but he's still grinning ear to ear when he swings into the kitchen, leaning on the doorway. Andy's already busy at the stove, but he glances over his shoulder as if he was just waiting for the first glimpse; they lock eyes, and Chucky cackles at the blushing way Andy snaps back to the food.

"Ass is here," he announces, clambering up onto the counter to get the coffee. You'd think they'd store it lower, considering who usually ends up making it. Still, it gives him a good reason to turn around and sprawl open there, head tipped back against the cabinet, and grin.

Andy avoids looking openly. He kicks his heels, smirking, and waits until he snags the man's eye again. Andy finally glances over to frown. "Are you going to make coffee or what?"

"Depends," says Chucky. "If I do, will you fuck me over the back of the couch?"

In his defense, it's not his fault Andy's a clumsy piece of shit and nearly drops the frying pan. It might be his fault the man has a bright red face for half of breakfast, but he's not too torn up about it; it's a good look. He'll have to work on that more often.

He'll have to work on the makeup more often, too, if this is what it gets him.

* * *

  
Doctor Death once told him Erzulie Freda likes makeup. John told him a lot of things about the Lwa, many while they were both under the influence of something or other, so it's a miracle he remembers this; it tracks, though, so he trusts his memory. He buys her Marc Jacobs' Infamous 228. It's expensive, but Erzulie is not one to skimp on. When it comes to Vodou, there are a few simple but very important rules: you don't lie, you don't take chances, and you don't go cheap. 

On Thursday, once Andy has gone down to work, he sets about his own business. He prays for John's soul first, mumbling Hail Marys with ill grace; he hardly cares about the state of the man's soul one way or the other, as the troubles John brought upon him in this life are balanced out by the fact that it was himself who ushered the man right back out of this life in return, but his personal feelings are irrelevant. It could be dangerous to use information John gave freely without showing a sign of gratitude. Again, Vodou: you don't mess around with this stuff. Things come back around. You play loose and fast, you get bitten in the ass -- and Chucky's had enough bites taken out of his already, thank you. (He's focused more on getting one person in particular to bite him there. He has different priorities now.)

"Anyway, thanks for this, you old bastard," he mutters, putting the beads away. "I owed you worse, but somebody probably fucked you up when you were learning, too. Guess it just keeps rolling downhill, huh?" 

There, that's the least of it done. He unfolds the white silk he bought for Erzulie, taking his time spreading it out on the shelf, neatening the corners as he goes. Now that he knows Andy might not have needed all the powers of heaven and earth pushing on him to feel some interest in Chucky's squat, half-shredded ass, his effusive promises to Erzulie seem a little excessive. It turns out maybe he didn't need to say he'd move mountains for her. He might've squeaked by with just a candle and some songs.

Still. _Vodou_. The Lwa are emotive and changeable, and Erzulie is a very capricious Lwa indeed. Her favor can be lost with the smallest mistake. The last thing he intends to do is lose what he just gained by failure to pay up; he's seen men lose more for less, and Erzulie's rumored favoritism for gay men is not something to bank on. If she felt him improperly appreciative and took Andy away now, she might as well rip his old heart out of his young body -- he's not sure he'd survive the misery.

So he smooths out the silk with gentle hands. He puts out the glass of fresh water, with basil and perfume. He lights the white candle and sings. John Bishop was what you might call a homegrown practitioner, his spells and chants a very Louisiana-based voodoo thanks to his mentor in turn, and Chucky knows his bastardized Creole cannot sound as pleasant to her ears as some of the smoother, earthier rolling sounds he's heard others sing. Still, he means it. He means it and his desperation to keep what she has given him tunes him a special sort of respectful, the respect that is grounded in a healthy dose of fear; John once told him the weeping mistress enjoys the sound of heart-hurt in songs, because she empathizes with it, finding it beautiful as she is beautiful, so perhaps it's just as well.

He's not sure if that's true, since his mentor hardly dipped a toe in the holy water poured for Erzulie; John was busier courting the favor of Damballa, who reigns over death, whose house is always hungry for another. Nonetheless, John never lied. He manipulated, and stole, and there was a reason he was wanted by the police -- but he never lied. Chucky takes that to heart and sings as serenely as he can.

"A month of Thursdays," he says, after he's done. "A whole month of Thursdays, I promised you." He watches the white candle burn lower, its flame small but strong. "And I'll keep my promise. I'll keep it and I'll give you more, Metres, I'll find you flowers and I'll keep the house spotless and I'll light you a candle every Thursday for as long as you want -- as long as he stays with me."

He goes back to his day. He cleans the house top to bottom, as he promised, irked beyond all reason when he discovers this actually translates to six feet high to bottom, six feet being the absolute peak he can reach on the step stool. Andy is confused, but only marginally annoyed, when upon arriving home he is immediately bullied into dusting all the ceiling corners.

"What's this?" He's on the stool, now, balancing a little precariously to reach the guest bedroom's edges; from this vantage point he can look directly down on the shelf covered with silk, a lipstick case and wilted flowers still laid on either side of a melted wax ring. Chucky huffs, stamping his foot to get the man's attention.

"It's my altar, don't be a prick."

"Is that lipstick?"

"I _said_ \-- "

"I'm just asking!"

"It could be a knife if you want," he says, walking over and looking up, hands on his hips. "That what you prefer, huh? Or you bein' intolerant? I thought better of you, Barclay."

"Jesus, okay, sorry I asked." Andy rolls his eyes, getting back to work, but Chucky can clearly hear him mumble to himself (which probably means it wasn't meant only for himself.) "Go ahead and start a zombie apocalypse, or raise the dead, or whatever. Call me when you need help carrying all the damn bodies."

He pushes the man's calf, not hard enough to topple him, just enough to scare. Andy corrects his tilt immediately, already halfway down the stool before he's fully balanced, ready to spring. Chucky feels a sudden hard lump in his throat at the instant readiness to fight. 

"Sorry," he croaks.

Andy's eyes lose a little of their all-whites ferocity, but he climbs the rest of the way down, giving Chucky an aggressive shove to the forehead. "Bastard."

"No, wait, I'm sorry!" He stumbles, righting himself sharply, and grabs Andy's shirt before he can leave. "I'm an asshole, I'm sorry. Go back up."

"You can clean your room your own damn self."

"Andy, please?"

The man pauses, glancing down at him, clearly thrown. "Why is this such a big deal?"

"It's, y'know, I'm. Y'know. An adult, I like having clean spaces. Andy!" he barks, when the man rolls his eyes and heads for the door. "I'm _serious,_ please! I'll make waffles for breakfast."

Andy assesses him. "...why is this such a big deal?"

"Fuckin' christ." Shoulders slumping, he gestures towards the shelf. "It's gotta be clean in here, okay? Completely clean, cobwebs an' all." Andy's eyebrows bounce up, lips pursing, but he says nothing. "And I can't reach the ceiling, so fuck off."

Andy grins. "Well, if you say so --"

"Andy Friggin' Barclay!" He collides with the man's leg harder than he intended to; Andy hadn't been leaving at speed, clearly expecting him to follow. The thought grates, but not as much as the fear of Erzulie's disfavor does, so he clutches Andy's pants even though he knows he just played into those stupid big hands. "C'mon, don't be a punk just 'cause I am."

"You're worse than a punk," says his roommate, ruffling his hair, which is _peak_ rude. He smacks the hand away, scowling at Andy's dancing eyes. "You're a real piece of work."

"I'll give you a real piece of work," he growls, privately washed with relief as Andy pushes past him to climb back onto the step stool. The boy finishes dusting the corners, glancing curiously at the altar now and then as he does. Chucky watches from the doorway, hands on his hips like a tiny housemother, to make sure he doesn't miss an inch; his hackles raise every time Andy looks like he might ask, but otherwise it's quick work. In short order they finish the rest of the rooms, and then he can heat up the jambalaya and they can collapse on the couch and watch shit TV and drink and eat, so that's all right.

Andy waits until they're both three bottles in to ask, of course. The sketchy bastard. "So why were you offering lipstick to Damballa?"

"Not Damballa, his mistress," he says automatically, then snaps his head to the side, glaring. "What's it to you?"

"Yeah?" Andy leans his cheek on his hand, elbow propped on the back of the couch. "What's her name?"

"Nunya," he says, and takes a gulp of beer.

"Nunya? What language is -- oh, you know what? _Fuck_ you."

He howls, heels hammering the couch as he cackles. Andy lazily flips him off. He wipes away the tears and returns to his bottle, chuckling against the lip of it. "Ain't your business who I pray to, so eat me."

"My business since it's my _house_."

"That so." He closes his bad eye, taking a thoughtful drink. "...but it's kind of _my_ house, too, now, so I guess that makes it my business."

"Makes it both of ours, doesn't it?"

"Maybe. Maybe you're a prick. What's it to ya who I pray to, it's a free goddamn country, isn't it?"

"Maybe I want to know if you're planning on bailing."

The glass neck of the bottle suddenly feels cold in his hand. He rests the beer on his thigh, other leg bouncing a little in a burst of nerves. "Whatcha mean?"

Andy's turned fully towards him now, the various financial dramas of _Pawn Stars_ completely forgotten. "You can't be serious."

Somehow he can't look directly back, his gaze flirting with the sofa edge, the coffee table. "As a heart attack, Andy Barclay, what do you _mean?_ "

"You tied me to a bed when I was _six_." Andy leans forward over his own bent knee, tapping Chucky's thigh with one finger, punctuating each word. "I'm curious."

"Well you're not _six_ anymore and it's not even marginally the same thing, so can we drop it?" Instantly, in the way Andy's gaze hardens, glass-sharp, he sees they can't. It's the focus Andy gets when he's on the hunt: nothing but death will stop him. It's the single-minded, diamond-hard focus of a predator. Chucky taught him that. The kid was a sweet little chick, easy to snap the neck of and offer on the altar; then Chucky fucked up, failed repeatedly in his sacrifice, and while he was scrambling to recover Damballa's favor Andy studied well. He taught the kid, and now he's got to live with the consequences.

Andy rubs a small circle on his thigh with the side of one broad thumb. Chucky watches, memorized by the touch. "If there's gonna be more voodoo in this house, I think I want to know just what I'm getting into."

He cracks a weak grin. "Funny you should say that..." Andy's raised brow shows no humor. He loses the grin, turning frank. "I was giving thanks for what you got into last night, if you get my drift."

As uncomfortable as this is, it's all worth it to see the way Andy's face falters, then flushes red. "You were _what?_ " he yelps, hand retreating, and it's kind of funny how this threw him more than the suspicion that Chucky was up to some sort of dark magic. "You _do_ that? Why -- you _what?_ "

Groaning, he tips his head back, since the ceiling is easier to keep a straight face at; Andy's shocked, red-cheeked expression is just too damn amusing and he doesn't need to fuck this up with laughter. "Listen, I prayed to Damballa when I needed help with death and life, because he deals with death and life, okay? So when I need help with --" God, he didn't intend to get this deep with this shit! Not when they aren't both vulnerable and shaking and the presence of the night at least pretends some form of privacy. He didn't mean to talk about this while they watched shitty TV and ate dinner, for christ's sake. "You know. There's different Lwa. So if I've got something else on my mind, I talk to whoever deals with that, okay? Conversation over."

"But why do you need to --"

"Conversation _over!_ "

"Are you saying every time we --"

" _Nope!_ Nah nah nah, _no_ , over! Done! Finito! Closed! Conversation given concrete shoes and feeding the fishes! Done!"

Andy purses his mouth, looking thoroughly unsatisfied, but it seems Chucky's aggressive verbal wall is holding, at least for now. He settles back on the couch, returning to his beer, only pausing thoughtfully now and then. Chucky shoves himself into the corner of the couch arm and nurses his own drink. 

Andy catches him as he gets up, starting for the hallway; the man grabs his wrist as he passes, and Chucky swings on him in a defensive bad temper. "Fuck off, I gotta take a leak!"

"Do you pray every day?" asks Andy, looking pensive. He scowls, searching the man's face, then responds lightly, praying Erzulie isn't listening and offended by his flippancy. Hopefully she understands situational levity. 

"When I need to, yeah. Mostly once a week, now get off."

Andy lets him swat free of the hold. His expression softens. "Well, next time, say thanks for me, too."

He freezes. Andy doesn't blink. He can feel the blush heating the tips of his ears, the top of his cheeks, and it's humiliating. He turns, bites out a "Sure, whatever, I'm not your fuckin' slave," and flees for the bathroom.

Once the door is safely locked, he slumps down against it, face in his hands; he can feel the heat in his cheeks. He can feel the grin, too, wide and untameable. He tries to press it flat but it won't stop. "Aw, god," he moans, stomping the bathroom tile in the most good-tempered fit he's had in a while. "Erzulie, this boy's got my heart _fucked_."

He thinks he hears a musical titter of laughter, but when he looks up, of course there's no one there.

* * *

  
Not that he suddenly turns into a glamour queen. If anything, the situation seems to have made him more careless; he stops worrying about constantly cleaning his own shirt and pants, starting to sneak more often into Andy's massive hoodies and shapeless tees. He's always been a picky dresser, but for the first time in his life he finds himself in his boxers now and then, thoughtless to his undress as he studies the fridge at two in the morning. It's far beyond anything he's been comfortable sharing with anyone before, now available to anyone who cares to see, but it's just him and Andy at night. And, like, the man's stared down his asshole. There's a certain weird freedom that comes with that knowledge. 

It's not as if he's suddenly grown happy with it all. Rose glasses aside, the doll body didn't do him any favors; the weirdly symmetrically-freckled snub nose is still there, as are the strangely pudgy belly, the unnaturally shapeless feet, the sloped shoulders. But a week after the lipstick incident, he does something unprecedented: he lights a cig, strips to his underwear, and studies himself in the full-length mirror.

Enthusiastic amounts of scarring, check. Weirdly botched-up eye, check. Half-pint stature, ruptured lips, beer belly that doesn't match the wiry strength in his arms so it looks like someone stuck it on him as an afterthought, check check check. He smokes and categorizes all the ugly slashes. There's dozens. He can count on one hand the ones Andy didn't give him; that's a little misleading, of course, given how he _deserved_ every one when he got it, but the point stands. He's a real piece of work.

"Piece of patchwork," he mumbles around the cig, and chuckles, exhaling until his reflection is wreathed in smoke. His body isn't perfect -- lord knows his squinty eyes have a hard time landing on something they like -- but his lover seems to dig it. What more can you ask from this bitch of a world?

He buys himself a stick of Infamous, which bites, given the price tag, but he'd never use Erzulie's. His gets chucked into one of the bathroom drawers, rolling around in the clutter whenever he goes on a tear for a band-aid or a hair tie. He leaves it there, shiny and new, because he's got no use for it but it isn't hurting anybody. Hell with it. Maybe he'll give it to the kids, next time he sees them.

That's what he tells himself every time he grabs it instead of the comb. And if he uses it sometimes, just a few touches, well, that's nobody's business but his own. And if he sends a picture to Andy downstairs, just a shot of his mouth, maybe, a chance of an obscene gesture, no-one besides them needs to know. And if he doesn't wipe it off before he climbs onto the bed to wait, feet kicked out, shoulders half-covered in one of Andy's softest shirts, that's his own damn prerogative.

And if it makes his stomach flutter, the way Andy's footsteps thud so eagerly down the hall, the way the man stops in the doorway to admire him, to look him over with such greedy eyes, well, christ, who needs to know? And if it makes him give a less than manly squeal, the way Andy will charge him like he's starving, like if he has to wait one more second to put Chucky's made-up pout through its paces he'll die, well, what's the harm?

It's nobody's fucking business, is what it is. Nobody's business but theirs. And theirs -- well, it's quite fun business indeed, and he's got to get his kicks somewhere. Can't be using all the old habits, so now he's got to make new ones.

Besides, Andy seems to dig it. And what Andy wants, Andy gets, and nobody gets to say otherwise. Chucky makes _sure_ of that.


End file.
